You might think I’m more mould than mind,
tampering with the gravitational pull between
spinach and scale in the grocery store;
a flat-packed scam folded into waste-paper skin.
But swallowing so many honey-glazed lies
I’ve simply learnt to nurse the glint of sun into gold;
spin miracles from mangled bits of bread,
minced excuses and morsels; conjure dreams from dust.
The world spits me out like I’m sour; like the pollen
is poison in the flower that sprouts from the wasteland
of my heart. But I’m just hungry, that’s all,
tinning my hope in brine so it won’t turn stale.