I could talk about the way the stars are
as brittle as daisies and how I cut my fingers
on their petals how they stare and judge
with their cloud foulards and Hermès scent
as lethal as the carrots waiting to be sliced
where the cat squints through half-asleep eyes.
I could talk about how the kitchen knives
are sharp as daisies and so much shinier than turnips
And they smell so much daintier than the corner
of the veranda where the cat was sick.
I could talk about so much that is broken and aslant
or asunder and out of kilter like begonias in
January and the neighbours walking anywhere
like lawn grass without daisies too sharp to cut and
the turnips going mouldy in the bottom of the
fridge with their scent of fallen stars and cat grit
but does anyone really care?