š

 

 

I remember the wine—

and cambazola after the show,

 

two flavors aged, a wedge

from the savory wheel.

 

 

š

 

 

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,

always ready.

 

While she lived, my love knew how

to nudge the silence.

 

 

š

 

 

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?

 

 

š

 

 

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

that once

 

could empty out an hour, an afternoon,

a cluttered heart.