subtext

I crack an egg,

like a world translated.

It’s rough outside;

are interiors always different?

Divisions do create

a space; then again,

the curve of words,

like the tongue’s horizon,

licks a new-fleshed flower

toward an ecstatic sun.

Another day comes on hot,

the morning damp and oppressive.

I’m hungry and wonder

what to eat for breakfast,

as if ritual can compensate

for unrealized desire,

or change create difference.