The feel of cold river stones in the hand
on that one day when… Or, well, anyway,
maybe some music, some dinner, a tale
that turns on some jade pivot but the pen
drops and rolls towards that corner of my
rusty cheese-grater head. So, tomorrow?
It’s OK. He’s not a real doctor. Wait,
were we talking about you or me? No.
Something with zucchini, I suppose. When
those noises had stopped I felt I was just
about to remember a mineable
dream, and I don’t want to be a bore, so
once the cicadas have emerged we’ll leave
town for another dozen years or so
other animals 