and I can’t find it. For blackberry
jelly she’d fill it first with a cotton
cloth, the pure juice drained ever so
slowly. It’s anything I’m looking to
wring at the moment, particularly
flavorful or no. Even a memory or
two from Treasure Island, a chat over
sashimi, California rolls, and
cold unfiltered sake in a box. Even,
sure, a movie with Jennifer Lopez,
then something passionate (how it
ever happens assuredly, electricity
distributed equally; perhaps only
a myth, nothing to wring there).
How this fits with Robert Duncan
and a “burger” of salmon fillet
is all I have time to guess.
Those were desparate days,
I have to believe; clocks ticking
incessantly, weeks of sunshine
giving way to months of fog,
and then that hour or two of
rain, a heavy downpour. Now
it’s fever (nothing tropical)
with distant sirens at two
in the morning. I wish I
were here, so that I could
look up to the two wall vases
full of dried lavendar and
imagine my train about to
arrive, full of magical kisses
and delicate conundrums.
