again. I'll pack it away
like a birthday present. Stuff
it in my drawers, with my bras
and socks. It's like a cookie

crumbling. I lick off all
the frosting. What's left falls on
the floor, to be swept up when I do
the evening chores. It's a locomotive

train leaving the station in the
morning. If I sleep in, I'll miss
it. I must run or it will fly like an eagle
mountain high. But in the running,

I must stop and sniff my garden
blooming or catch a breeze skating
a figure eight on my skin. My face,
a tease of sunlight percolating.