Wildflowers blushing red and pink in their bud vases.
Gnocchi and boiled potatoes. Dark bread
and softened butter. Trays of fresh tomatoes and cheese
as we practice listening, conversation and food
crossing paths in our glorious mouths.
The summer light slipping away,
its cool blue blowing along our bare arms and faces.
Each of us well-fed and believed.
Each of us holding the other in our ripe, foreign minds.
With this remembering
is the importance of forgetting.
Of holding the flavor but not the food.
Of holding time without the hour.
Of holding the brightness without the moon.
Of holding the green but leaving the country.
There’s one more thing I remember about that day.
How in the evening we discussed Kafka,
imagined that in our sleep we, too,
might grow a carapace
smooth as volcanic stone.
Opening and closing,
rusty mandibles grasp the sky.