The smell of newly cut grass, mowed over, patted down in stripes;
the smell of a sharpened saw blade buzzing through wood, wood burning,
splintering, falling to the ground too fast, in pieces too many to count;
the smell of sawdust, so thick in the nostrils it’s like corn starch on the tongue,
tomatoes and dirt;
new grass;
lilacs:
Summer as a child; or: grandpa.

A stamp-sized pat of butter,
sizzling pan, slightly off center to the left,
melted, melting, a liquid ring mostly formed,
transparent and gold still in places, barely visible unless you catch the right angle in others,
giving in and up to fate, mostly, yet just enough solids hang on,
out, defiance, in the heat of the middle, just enough for you to know:
A breakup with your first love. Last.

The rust of a blade touching skin:
Sharp, Denial, as you were.

A vegetable peeler to the pinkie:
It seems you must go too deep before I bleed.