Now the trees are a burnt sienna.
As songbirds move north over the city
you return from a trip east with your arms
full of tomatoes, a new shirt. I am discerning.
The tomato was once said to be noxious
for leaves akin to deadly nightshade.
I don’t blame anyone-- even tonight
there are storm clouds on the radar
while the ground is dry as bone.
I don’t care whether you see a cloud
or a flock of birds: when you look at the sky
I see the underside of your chin.
We learn migratory birds burn muscle
for water during flight, not fat, and it is only
the leaves of tomatoes that can kill you.
Look how knowledge doesn’t expand, it
changes. When we met you were wearing
a different shirt, the trees were an asparagus
green, and I was with another man.
Tell me, what will you cook with your tomatoes?