Eating a sugar sandwich, I sit at the kitchen table
admiring the geraniums outside the window,
their big heads as American as Martha Washington.
I grew them from seeds and now the leaves are frilly like genitalia.
After so many sunrises together, they almost have faces
with puffed out mouths and throats, and when night falls,
they mix glamour with the gutter, like Paris or Rome,
but in the morning, they’re themselves again, as birds hover
in the distance—hunting on the wind, using their tails to equilibrate,