A fresh orange blaze on the kitchen table, heads opening out
like half-balloons. I get out of the air mattress after a night
with a new bed-time. The blue corners of the bed unveiled
from feet-kicks in sleep. I eat eggs with yolks
so dark it scares me. The flower, orange with black moles
on the petals, should light the morning. My father already
commenting on its death, how it opens before it goes.