Right now, sweet petals
of inebriating peace
drop with gentle kisses
on the outside of my cheek.
I've always been able
to find nutrition, somewhere
in an hour of day or night
at seaside in the clatter of shells
from the spreading fall of waves
or in the company of owls
in the fading crescent moon
or the popping of the sun
out of the mud of dream.
Yet there is a remainder
of a thing that is nowhere
and it is sharp like a knife,
bitter like chicory,
waiting
with the patience of the dead,
always almost ready to be served.
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