Jars (Routine)

I am cool at the bottom, and my hands make patterns as my mind skims stones.
Slate hums and smiles silently. Outside the sky spreads its silent slate. At the end of my vision my shed frames midnight watering cans and wet flowers and bare feet.

Thick warmth roams the air and slowly rubs alongside gently cooking bread. I swivel and spoon granules of coffee, watching the bottom disappear and filling up inside.

My hand grips the jar comfortably and I inhale sweetness, a light red smell that sees summer all year round through chilled artificial light.

Watch the knife do the work. I cover the areas and slice the middle, all the time breathing of earth and licking strawberry from my fingers. I lean into a corner and watch my jar of elements with hot fingers.