The Cracking Teapot

my perennial fumes unfurled from the sheets and sniffed a bowl of lemon

sugar that reminded me of your kitchen | a freckled floor, respirations that

remain half–asleep beneath the cracking tea pot. let me in, or I will wear

away on the grass, right here, a spinning rotor made of sandglass and illegal

ivory | nothing seemed familiar because I’d only ever seen love through the

blankness in your stare, expecting it to smother me between macerated fruit

and rye, like a Babylon of star clusters crossing against immeasurable pastures.

tell me, is any of this true? perhaps I forgot that time does not exist

but for those who retire in their hearts old image.