The tomatoes all swim at an aquarium.
I volunteered there, I know their sleep cycles.
They move in a giant circle, slowly consuming
the color red as it passes through the tank.
I have not pointed out the three identical murals
of the women slurping spaghetti into their maws.
The tomato seeds fester in the giant bellies. O silent
guppies of produce. Who doesn’t love the sight
of tomato sauce? ask the French-Canadian girls.
Everyone stops to tap on the glass, but I won’t let them.
The bottom stitch frays out of a sock and it falls to spaghetti.
Anything could go on it, a clinging ragu of carrots.
A July song of metallic cicadas. The feathers
of red birds killed by icy bricks. Keep your eyes
on the aerator. Invent a simile that ends “like stones”
as my warm dry hands fit over your eyes.
Not so much blue sunlight
crumpled, tossed, helpfulness
landed hard on every wire.
That no one could think
what season, what season
like a new pony locked behind
chain link in a neighborhood
you’ve walked all your life.
Yellow sunlight springs at girls
buying cake in plastic.
Panic button accidentally pushed,
the honks, this stall cozy,
wintery with stop sign ennui.
Go? A coroner asks for
dead oak leaves hurtling
when no one agrees. Gilt
went forward into the sprawl
a deep voice, the male
voice washing feet. That
unanswered notch in a pod.
You’d love to get on top
of a warm body and swim.
And note to self, the filament
fur behind the ear we jockey
towards: do seeds believe in
swimming, fucking, stammering
worry? No. This chartreuse
down coat halves its pod,
a chick pea rolls faint
out of a husk. Full on confused,
or rabid doubtful, green floats
coming loud like a request
no one wanted to hear. The man
sits like a surprise in his
impeccable suit his blood-colored
boots, who knows where.
The pork bellies lie dormant in their cold locker. And out by the cuttings in silver tumblers, the measure’s red line being watched same as the rising heap of flour. What’s from the yard isn’t a forest proper, it isn’t a thought like one light yellow then yellow again. Caution in the meal, your happiness at being that person left in the kitchen late at night, pondering guest arrivals: holy-men, or clouds. A cook has no choice but to notice the house tended, his hands extended to a gate. He’s serious about the bacon, about the welcome being written large, about the wide spaces between people. He opens the door with a platter of twenty kinds of cake. To feed to the lions.