Courtship In The Taste of You
These events will culminate in a wallop,
either way. But first a phone number spelled
out in sotto voce sequence, whispering
swift urgent letters of numbers arranged
within the narrow aggrandizements,
as all like our selves, reined into
one might say, chimed into, a duet
with some distant space between that
falters in the necessity of a time line.
A gasp for the now here instead, as rain
cascades durative traffic, concentrated
and upon itself, spooling all the insoluble
where can exist appreciation for vast
rehearsals in this wayside. Like storm
chasers, lovers, how both are moved
by the dark in the sky. Without a reason,
beyond a course ruff with black walnuts,
personally entwined in truancies of nature
from what eddies, sways, dances at night
amidst the mixed chatter of calacas.
We can hear their past ongoing voices,
and remove us then to pieces. How hard.
The hard parts left in back cupboards,
dry portions from the previous owners.
So time to go, don’t you think? That’s
what the radio can sing in the morning--
resplendent for a moment while hobnobbing
with the indoor gazanias; later a sigh as
punctilio squanders in the temporal garden
under a lone star, hung tired, burning as
above the toe end of an abandoned peninsula,
solitary as currents of blackwater rivers
amidst company during shiny café dinners
while ghosts in the streets blindly traverse.
Defiantly, the meal disclosed, pleasant, even
while there’s slybooting in the alley shadows
reminding us that mendacious distinctions
ferment these complexities. Like in the wine
I forgot to mention, paired up with cooked
drama in the serving portions. Garnish over
on the left side. Cheers. How about it then.
It’s easy to be skeptical with something
that’s all too easy. This is not, sort of is.
Supposing there and not even understood as
presence grows escargot and additively the coils
spiral the shell. What is mollified is tasted
in a basket for these rewards, laid out clear
enough as momentum goes forward anyway.