salt

when you come for me, again, it is dull

in the morning
as nap time at the nursing home

as stagnant too

what about the happy places,
you say

front porch behind the forest at the edge where
they grow corn on the high bank of a mudflat river
penny-smell of too ripe crops
tapestries in the window, an old cat
dust in its whiskers, nodding at you

bored with you as you are of yourself

& how you rocked
clocking the round oak curve of an ancestor’s chair
back n forth back n forth
& listened to vinyl
& at night slid silent as wet river rocks
in to soak, wearing only the water &
glisten of moon

and on my tongue it almost came,
but i had to swallow it like salt,
like snot, like brackish stink sick w
too much brine won’t let nothin float

like that, and you left, and i

return my gaze morning-ward, to the place where
there’s nothing there, after all

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