Goat cheese, cherries, asparagus.
The blue sun hesitates at the edge
of the water, unsure of its path
in the dim light. Swollen pods
of flowers ponder the dawn,
dew dripping, as the crimson haze
rounds the corner. What Sunday
sultans of orchids lay hidden
in his dreams of the forest?
The sun decides, rounding
into a coin, to proceed—white
blaring now out of the horizon
like a French horn, a crystalline
carrot. Mozart in the dirt, Freud
in the sour cherries falling
from the trees, his childlike tugs
on flowers that won’t be uprooted.
Silence says the grass. He bites
into the food, breathes liquid light.