Smacks of light as pieces of morning
assemble. Dawn turns it all Pangea.
In a nearby field, the cherry trees
go dizzy with their own sweet juice,
get drunk on their own bloodstream.
The children are out. Scooping up
what falls to the ground. Soon they
are bloated with skins and lipstain.
The bottoms of their shoes stomping
out the ones not good enough to eat.
Nearby, their mothers are waking, too.
Shuffling the cards like every morning.
Good day, bad day. Meanwhile, the swell
of the sun becoming a ball. The shrivel of dead
cherries on the ground, flat as unspent coins.
