scrambled, for breakfast

you sat in the basket, it is july.
i have flowers growing from my seams, my
head my hair. lanky and thin and barely
green; i wish they were daisies. i
let the ants stomp on them as a ritual
cleansing, and the ants grow wings.
you misplace assurance, miscalculate your lead,
and tell me, "it's okay, they'll
grow back" kiss on my fingertips.
the heat bites at our teeth and your head
cracks open like an egg. yolk
frosts my lips, down the middle and
the heart turns yellow as it touches
our breath. i climb
inside your shell, sticky suns splashing
on my feet- tender meat. here
stand the promises of wringing out
the whites,
crushing the filament.