is always on, which is a lie, and it’s Sunday
which is the truth, and there’s a thing
in the corner blooming with colorful language,
so I look at it for eleven seconds trying to imagine
the most honest way to tell you an orange,
but then I realize that the most honest way
has nothing to do with the imagination, at which point
I realize that honesty isn’t the best policy,
but also that that orange sure looks delicious,
and if we only had some little fishes and some
eggs and a crusty piece of bread, maybe a knife,
we could eat a still life for breakfast,
and right then and there all the blazing-est art would fly
right out the window, chirping its hurt
at all the sunnier dispositions, which is another
way of saying even the bright things are
awfully bright, and additionally
that thing in the corner is opening its mouth,
revealing its satellites’ gratuitous violets, “Give me
my motherfucking gloves,” it reminds us
not to be the image of an image of an image
nor to come any closer; mystery
is crucial for the good of human being,
all running together in the yolk of an egg
or the zest of an orange and two or three other things,
some crying, some screaming, all the stars in one bite.