I can’t spread the butter on the toast and I can’t sleep.

How do people mash a yellow square into gold?

I have the wrong bread, the wrong knife.

The square is irrefutable.

It’s like the wedge that keeps my door ajar, noises wafting.

What? I’m busy I’m spreading.

I hate squares, that’s what we call them, the conventionals,

those that need to be perfect and set images aglow.

I’m absolutely exhausted. My robe is dim yellow.

The lights are dulling though the sun aches.

I’m telling off a fat slab of oil, get busy, go.

It’s a smear campaign. Maybe because I bought wheat.

I stayed away from the nuts, the little bits of grain.

But the meadow wasn’t sowed correctly.

The belly of it breaks before it disintegrates.

Okay, you win. I’ll eat a chunk of you in flour.

I’ll wear you on my smile.

I could have just used jam, I could have eaten fruit.

I could rip apart a box of flakes.

I can be so simple,

to sit basked in flowers and light, and pat you,

radiant one.