shedding shells into compost bins,
the tea steeps beneath the boil
diffusing white and rosebud and honey.
by lunchtime, we’re greened.
you’ve forgotten where your mouth is--
airplaning in each spoonful; split-pea, creme d’asparagus
it’s basically all the same. maybe a salad
tomorrow, when the day is peaked.
evenings are another matter altogether:
ritual and fanfare, dressing in tails.
potatoes browned like mountains,
butter padded setting suns.
blood and fat ooze from fire pit spits.
carnivorous things, we snarl sheepishly
and lick fingers clean.