One day when there is no breath, thus no longer song
no incantatory, forgiving algebra for the open window
and the wind,
and the wasps stirring along the sill
in late March.
Not cinder, not smoke, and what all
else that will
not be there. No more.
Is it enough, then, to glimpse another's
reflection in a picture window backed by night,
lit by Chilean wine and soft voices?
The melon's syrup slicks someone's
cheek; a napkin thick with the scent
of currants and folded in thirds
falls to the floor.
Outside, the lawn furniture levitates above
the sleepy eyes of mute animals led astray.
No other world but this. This.