I carry a paper bag of flowers, the petals are blue, yellow, and orange,

Early flowers, the bag is a sandwich bag, it’s dawn,

I put the flowers in a basket and bike home, the sky is blue, orange, and yellow,

My wild face, in momentum, how is the dawn somehow starry after all the stars are put away?

How is it, just for a second, this wild face among the stars, on a bike, with flowers

For the dining room table, to be with books, and pencils, and to have breakfast with,

Encourage me to open the windows, they are the better part of me, for a few days,

In which time, I’ll write what seems to be stream of consciousness poems, better yet,

I’ll put on my canvas shoes and walk till my stomach growls

For the fire and fever of tasteless stars.