I take a day and pop it, pill-like, into my mouth.
At first, it’s sour. Scrunched-face sour.
Then the coating dissolves in the rain.
My tongues finds sugar in the flower petals,
bright flags ready to be folded with the first frosts.
Catching, strong coffee finds me. I don’t
like the taste of coffee. I don’t drink it.
I absorb the bold, smokey bean smell
and take energy just from that. Cut grass,
dew-wet, on walking boots. Spikes
that fall to people, instead of people
falling to spikes. Tea to wash it down.