I remember the wine—
and cambazola after the show,
two flavors aged, a wedge
from the savory wheel.
Outside, plenty of wind to open the hickory
leaves and the deep bloom
of the azalea.
But here, inside, nothing moves or mutters.
Emptiness is my spouse, attentive,
While she lived, my love knew how
to nudge the silence.
Slab of salmon on the plate. Orange layers
loosen up, slide off
the rubbery skin. Tender,
still hot from the broiler. Could that fish
taste the lemon pepper
as it leapt beside the falls?
Through the screen I watch the past blow by
then find a corner under the stairs
where the future
never thinks to look. Here, out of time, I feel
a hand along my skin, fingers
could empty out an hour, an afternoon,
a cluttered heart.