He returns with tea and grapefruit, six slices, a slight rendition of Cohen.
I am a bare-breasted Cleopatra, a romanticized bargain-bin Suzanne.
As a chemist, I mix lemon and milk without curdling;
as a writer, I sleep late, blend outside radio words with dreams.
A deep blue sky clear of stars and planets, and I am awake
with the teachers and garbage collectors; stealing a piece of the day for myself.
The parked cars, treetops and buildings are silhouetted
against almost day; a simple contrast I try to resolve.
My couch, a garden of detached flowers and leaves,
this depiction of fall, while I write in late morning.
Two small, furry bodies wait through the night,
to bound into morning and explore the wilderness of the living room.
Our third day half gone, and still nothing is lost;
we exist in our own hours, determine the sunset.
I drag you from sentence to sentence, and we spend days
driving through my paragraphs and looking for full colons: trying to
complete my list – you know you are the commas I rest upon.
Like a squirrel, I munch on almonds, as my mind climbs trees
and stores away friends and stories for the winter months.
There are too many words in this room, not enough seconds
in a minute, in an hour, in a day to absorb this lucid work.