Lunchtime, a distant chime.
Number 5 when sorted by height.
I had no passport. Porco Rosso said
He’d rather be a pig than a fascist.
Which meant nothing to me. Paled
Next to the sun & her cicada brigade.
We trickled out with animal wristbands
And beheaded flowers from their stems.
Suck at the base. I did & honey.
I did & tarnished sucrose on my tongue.
Only one year later umma told me
Wildflowers are not edible
anymore. Who knows how much city
it’s photosynthesized. The winter pond
froze over and held hostage my reflection.
I swallowed my love of rhododendrons
& among everything I’ve retched up since,
That hum has not returned.