Morning sun through the open kitchen window
spotlights the movement of my own hands
as the sparrows bicker on the neighbor’s roof.
Slicing fennel on the cutting board: a soft,
clean smell. Clocks on the stove, the wall,
the microwave in harmony with the fridge hum,
the summer solstice. Grass widens the cracks
in the concrete, bit by bit, as I work the bulb,
plan. For my purposes of here, it is July
(or it is July), and so the sun lingers over LA
and gives us all the sweet illusion of more time:
dispensation, so we can know the sparrow’s
chirp and the smell of fennel better, acquaint
ourselves with the moment of the knife.