The earth was leaf dead to its vitality.
The house was empty and abandoned.
The bathroom smelled of laics laced
with what an odd sentiment—
a murder of crows—imagine the sky filled
with their cries and shadows,
as if winemakers had walked
the valley crushing grapes,
and juice had rolled off and ran the river red.
It was delicious. I ate ham hocks.
They were good too. I was there.
I saw no one else. I ate alone.
We could almost see the sap rise in the mist
We could almost smell its bouquet, hear it cackle,
the like of which would never be heard from again.
We trundle to the end of days, a cross our burden,
the witch, our companion. We sit alone at night
in all night cafes, scared to leave our selves behind.
But wait, who is this ‘we’? If I am here
alone. Then you are not here, are you?
How could I know what you saw in the mist?
Could smell it, etc.? Truth is, I can’t.
Can’t see you sitting on the bed.
Can’t see you leaning out the cell window.
Can’t see your empty smile at my dismay.
Two lonely doctors standing in the light
at the end of the darkened corridor—
that’s how I invented the past.