“And all that I knew is moving away from me.”
The sign on the office door reads
Gone where the clock really jumps from the wall
in exasperation at the lateness of hours,
where donkeys spit eulogies that fall
like bricklebrit in the palms of refugees.
Yes, it is a long message
because in places like that
gears reconsider why they are and retard
their turning; the key fits and the latch
slips open; spoons fill themselves
and moonless, drifting evenings fork.
In such a place
the song I wanted to remember
lingers in that first terrible moment
of waking and there is just a sputter
of time to profitably
retrace my trespasses.
Soirée dans Grenade
after Claude Debussy
Mix a quip with a droplet of Cinzano
and an olive in an ice cube
and lean forward to suggest attention.
It is, after all, transactional.
Look at her magenta lips as they pronounce argent