The basil plant scenting the window ledge. You could watch it
succumb for months. To a raffle of aphids. To heat.
You could take cuttings to garnish your bruschetta with sweet
contingency. You could love how to it it must seem
risible mooning after trumpet when all there is is
triangle. Ding. Flattened and blemished it laments nothing.
Spirited piecemeal from evergreen, no no. It cost you
two quid in the supermarket’s godless fluorescence.
Why not sniff. Be late to the appointment sniffing.
It smells like old guitar dusted and restrung. Smells of yes
and meant. A modicum of some former ah restored.
It could charcoal fast here. You can’t reverse
the herb’s miniature demolition, but roll it round your gob
and wake your palate with mouthfuls of window. Of hinge.