Soft as a Claude painting, the yellow sky tonight—
trees in the parking lot still thick, though the air, yes,
has an edge, the honey was solid in the jar
when I opened it this morning, found a single ant
frozen in the dunes, stunned by sweetness.
Can you really die of sweetness? Hard
to say yes, though I want to, looking up at these clouds
that make my heart jump: oh joy in seeing
though I can’t touch, like the girl repeating persimmon
as the waitress in the diner tells her about a tree
at the top of the hill she used to see, how beautiful
that vivid orange fruit was all at once.
Can’t touch them, but I see them in her eyes as
she remembers persimmons. Maybe that was
my mistake: thinking every love was different, a fruit
inside its own clear mason jar—my love, her love, his,
all separate as the trees they fell from. Maybe love
is more contagion, bubbles in a bathtub slowly
swelling, all the little circles drifting, gliding
gently into each other until they burst, until
nothing’s left but foam, the sound of rushing water.
I'm few deja-vus from repeating my whole life I need to study the shapes of things before death Before declaring myself a better failure: waiting mostly for files to get uploaded or downloaded. My movements are by the book. I will remember history, all of it, before uttering the next sentence And in its silence, I will navigate my headache “something is not what it is" And we are lost several worlds over Exploring the art of other civilizations After we subjugate them And leave the trees behind To carry on the sensitive task Of clearing the air Stop and think of the pointlessness of desire We keep going, wasting days between orgasms And thousands of poems To keep the pleasantness of clothes We are all implicated In the father's death, The mother’s death etc.