basket-with-oranges-1913Anger motes the air.

And on the third stair down, a winged seed from the sycamore tree, a spinning samara, a whirlybird.

You will want it. I will give it to you. You will consider planting it, but I’ll see it always, in five years and ten. You will pull it from your pocket or fish it from your wallet; you will hold it to the light, let it fall, watch it spin, translucent. And you will remember who gave it to you and why.

I smooth your outstretched palm, once smoothed by me, to make it ready.

You open your eyes to see if something so weightless can be visible or exist.

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matisseThis is a narrow morning,
the handcuffed

I decant. The table and the day slick over. The scent of rain on a pavement, that sharp rising; and your not looking away when I look back. My name beneath your tongue, taken.

And in the room with the stopped clock our breath syncopates and the break in your voice is the sound that I make and time since the draining of it.

You say I am soft and clean like water and soft and clean I flow. You wet your mouth on me. And did wine pour from your mouth to mine? I don’t know. The past cannot be predicted but I want to say we were here. We were here. Leave me here. I arch like architecture. Leave me here.

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I am remembered.

Column base with Maenads 1

And everything neglected and everything fermented. Too-ripe fruits on the windowsill skin-breached, fresh-broke figs, a chicken half-carved. Blood lees in stemmed glass and the stick of honey everywhere: the handle of the teapot, the cutting board, my fingertips. A fat jug of milk warms and rises; the draining board falls away. And a tree sprouts in the middle of the dance-wide floor.

Because I am remembered. The memory is ice sharp and sweet like violence. The day splits its bark.

I was a slow-wave sleeper, eyes still as safety; now your voice glitters like tears because I was content.

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