hand, palm, open head bowed. it was nothing & we named it believing only hunger teaches how to dream of food never tasted even if the last calorie went to the dreaming then describing to an empty room: let me tell you about the swell of it the shining memory of that exquisite fat greasing fingers lips the smell because if hearing is the last to go there may be someone there still listening even after the death of the all we risked for the never arriving meal by scar upon scar & you kept repairing mine–why–i lived with a man whose pain would cloud then sharpen vision and no one could say which it was in any moment until its aftermath which made it hard to answer simple questions like what is that thinking yes what is that really so i started calling it by unspeakable names meant to apply one day to some constant beginning like the way you taught me to say jacaranda to the purple that waved where we walked in the ordinary reverence of Tuesday late afternoons where in your skin i am smuggled from judgement to awe
