Spellbound by the nuance
of a change in the
I wake each morning with the broken
thoughts of another person
lying at the foot of my bed
and I try to arrange them into a coherent whole
before they evaporate
in the newborn light of day. And each day
I fail and am left with only
the smell of basil
faintly fragrant in the air.
A gathering of memories at the water’s edge.
Vividly colorful and living. A terrifying
ambivalence moves them.
A passion for love eternally ending
is spoken of. They are sad
and lost and utterly captive
to the lyrical temperament of their own words.
But though vulnerable
against it I stand enchanted. It’s our preference.
Yet it is just an excuse if
simply for this brief interlude
we can share together
the blackberries that have ripened on the vine.