Sitting and writing on the dining room table,
I want to tell you what it is to be alive,
the yellow oilcloth table takes the imprint
of my thoughts; the tablecloth reads back

“I want.” The mark of my pen
presses on the floral print: “I want to tell.”
An explosion of daisies stands fading
in the flower pot, a used Dundee marmalade

jar, ivory. The ordinary daisies, as steadfast as a
woman, hold their yellow centers: he loves me,
loves me not; he picks me as he
likes: he steps on me.