4 o’clock at dawn
crack open the yolk of the sun
and bathe under the yellow stars.
mouth full of mint paste,
with butterflies fluttering in your hair
and flowers blushing on your cheeks
your eyes are the golden gates
of the garden blooming
inside your ribcage.
slice the oranges in two,
and squeeze the sweet clementine dew;
take a sip of citrus fruit and
8 o’clock in the morning
draw the curtains, shut the
blinds. don’t let the sun
inside these white walls, where
it’s vacant and empty and
the tongue tastes stale against
metal. like the aluminum ring
of canned coke, meeting chapped
lips and teeth, swallowing dyed
saccharine in gallons.
after eight, the buzz still pokes and pinches your
brain, your mind, but your heart—still—says,
anyway, goodnight. . .
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