*

I keep looking down cups --the waiters
don't joke anymore, the customers yell
--I'm not sure where to dig next

as if you are still turning your head
in some doorway --waving
only tears its sides
and crumbles

--I need a shovel :an envelope with seeds
as stones are baked underground :flowers
throwing their colors on the stake

--I have to guess the spots.
sometimes I dig without knocking
without a yardstick, each hole
till its clay is fired :ancient jars

measured by remembering those thin envelopes
and their predictions :blooms
bubbling from this cup --each sugar-packet
emptied half by mistake, half in garden
half waving back

--I have to guess the distance, to dig
without breathing
or turning the ring on my finger
--I have to look for cups :your eyes
trapped in the ruins, the surrounding fire.

Copyright 2004 Simon Perchik
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