June nigh, 2013
Some ballpoints, a pencil, the laptop battery
lie on the table.
You lock up against more than flood waters.
Wait of word wait of meaning. The lime tree
flowers scent the streets.
Here a jazzy drum rhythm begins, light, steady,
something you can’t not want.
What do you want. The dipper stares down at me
as I stand on the balcony.
Seven or eight ice cubes. And Cezanne’s clock
without hands.
Some simultaneity. Like summer, the table.
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