After God falls between the clouds like sugar

through a sieve, we put on our coats and go

find breakfast. We eat in the old tower’s

stoppered eye. I break bread and think

about centuries-old friends, uncertain

of the velvety chord that sings when they slip

with the knife, of their breath’s mechanism.

Each certain that the world’s harsh elements

are tuned towards their hopeful aid –

a daisy flower with its yolky heart and petals

spread to an iris; the self as a honey-gold cell.

With the wreath and the lifting up of throats,

we are encouraged to remember endings.

November’s heatwave, everyone in summer

clothes again, like a nostalgia. The scar

across my ankle unzipped, poppying.