The dinner: subtle.
The conversation: witty, a few stranded grains.
I sat on the outskirts of the table, wayward-like,
un-intimately tied to the events being created.
Sal was sculpting her future with contemplation. Like one painting
fused to another painting. The park bench
she placed in an autumn pool, the architecture in a suit of summer variety.
Paul had hewn a moment to come like a bibliophile
rearranging a shelf, an analyst seizing a book as a problem to be solved,
a track champion smoking behind the gym.
Setting the Toyota Corolla in a duration of calm
before it had time to crash into the cluster of small farm animals:
Miranda and her sweetness had scrubbed
the cafeteria of quiet clocks into a cushion of warmth
before releasing the people and emptying the clouds of their snow.
Culpeper’s Herbal jutted from the table like a frozen chunk.
Take ‘talon,’ ‘Oslo,’ and ‘pea’
and do something with them, she said.
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