among the torn silks of phrase

listen: something good, red river
look: my sweet old etcetera

it was the most splendid first of spring because i had forgotten all about the equinox until long after sunset, too caught up in the simple acts of living. i breakfasted with m. on hot-cross buns and almond lattes in the bakery-soft morning, the whimsy of afternoon spent with n. citydrifting through the secret latticework streets. we sat on falling down, crumbling cement steps of winter, eating take-out pad thai & leafing through the new gastronomy, entirely drenched with spice & sunlight. i read poems from a half-purchased book into the fabric of day, like cups of oversweet tea, like sounding a tenter of the here & there.

all week long i have been noticing the alien smell of caramel & coffeegrounds against my skin, in my hair; the nicest feeling of gathering a connate pattern of very late nights. the orchestra of empty glasses are the remnants of a party, the room of found instruments: a melodica, a broken accordion, the we're-out-of-tunes guitar. ideas & questions filtering in and through the air & all around. we talk over the droning about the troubadour anthems of our parents and the 1960s and the hollows we've prescribed ourselves by time. the ice melts sharp in glasses of whiskey and novel faces in the candlelight & we are downtown, deconstructing bookshelves and now it is the morning, dear.