After this exhale, my coffee changed taste.
I'm jealous or warm wine, now.
Yesterday, it was the jumping ocean.
I lit a cigarette to swallow
the ashes – they sealed over my teeth.
Like finches that swallowed fire.
The birds said to me
in red text plus ampersand,
“Assuredly, the rocks will rub you raw,”
and they whispered in brush strokes.
I wanted to sift further and deeper
into the stones: sun-beat and broken
by salty waves, harnessed and cracked
by intention. Someone put them back together.
And the birds spoke,
“you are my very own rubbish.”
Their color broke under my heels.
I will eat funereal flowers.
Downstairs, I will change my mind
and disregard the past.
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