after Pablo Neruda
We have lost even this carafe.
There are no refractions today
by the pepper flakes— in the glass.
The snails slept by the snap pea hooks
and cradles— I salted them.
Sometimes I drank
from a vapored gas—
I made ellipses with my glass.
We fried yolks and honey
eye to eye in the pan.
Where was your shadow then?
When will the reflections warp back
to what we had and this all cleanliness?
My hound paddles in the blue
light— the timbre of rainfall sung.
Over, over I lull to the grass—
these blazes through the carafe.