My elbows root a new kitchen tablehours bunch around you--ridge or valley,
to my chin. My eyes, brief peonies,
scatter across the last two years:
eclipse: no lonesome quota of good books
or aged teas can quite silver past
your shoulders, your stone-
ground coffee, the gentle shake of your hands
plunging the French press and rarely
spilling. No matter how
thick I corded the dig of my heels,
you slid away. My wish just tin foil
over a dish we swung around in meticulous jibe
but forgot to write a recipe for. My wish, the tin
foil: cragged backtalk to the tink of the refrigerator
light bulb. Nothing keeps forever.
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