***
the morning outside at eight oh five looks like lilac and, through tempered glass, tastes like mint. i'm numbing my fingertips in a shallow dish of pomegranate seeds cool like the crimson of last night's coastal sky/i'm numbing my tongue with sharp bites of uncrystallized candied ginger, the tip and tang still smooth and sweet. (the sun hides over my roof.) my thoughts are an orange, divided into unequal twelves and flayed; but by my stomach, like twelve arcing peels, are stayed. my mind is a glass of wan almond milk, untouched; my mind is an apple core turning to caramel before my raisin&honey eyes; my mind is the wicked sickle of a pale banana. outside it is french mint and lilac, but inside i am insatiate like dreams of tangerines devoured in deliberate urgency. (my mind is a moon, on the run, and i cannot catch it because i am yet a melon.) these things i slice with my teeth like knives, until i am full, and ready, and just now waking from two decades of hazelnut sleep.
***
No comments:
Post a Comment