our kitchen turns rosaries of light
in ginger and lemon
outside the fib of things fading down
our evergreen seasons hot torn sage
and tarragon a basilica of basil
the neighbour one over
has hitched his jet ski to his ride-on
mower tests the weather of both
sweet earth under nails
smells not like first love
but what comes later
syngonium in jars string a new arrow
every two days
back in the kitchen I peel and you core
their rough middles and I mix up
cartouche with the hieroglyph
ritualising greaseproof
we go upstairs in the afternoon steam
while the quince unsupervised
poaches pink and tender
