Jasmine perfumes the woolly foreboding
which waxes o'er the balcony, rails, lawn chairs,
trails of suburban-blue and me and you.
The moon marbles and bobs like yolk in the milky sky;
I swear there could be a saxophone somewhere
underneath these stars that were here before.
The pot's half gone, perhaps an ounce in the hamper,
he says, fixing his stare on nothing in particular.
I, being dry,
sip my tea and cup his words–
of which I know will not remain–
and partake of the night air.
Naked, as if sashimi–so supple, raw–
a whipped density that gives pause
to the wish to chew our thoughts;
Our lot's here.
