Tuesday Morning: Kitchen Contemplations

There is always time in the morning
between galaxies
and orange juice. 
 
If you had a jar with a lid
you would try to save it, 
give it to the girl 
with the pressed lips 
and the eyes that crinkle.

You’re not sure what to make
of half-built cities 
except that when they haunt you 
in your dreams the streets overflow with possibility 
and the rooftop ridgelines are hunched, 
bent at the hip, 
against the skyline. 
 
You’re still soft in the middle:
both raw 
and burnt 
and never giving up.