I am living in the fugue
and, yes, this is November,
and, sure, there’s no rain
because California has been eaten out
by a mulish tongue, coarse,
slap-weathered, but what do I
know of it, though maybe rain
would be fitting,
and maybe rain
would make me feel clothed
like the world cared to fit itself
to me, like draping a coat
over a shivering body, and, no,
I’m still licking the salt
off my fingers, though,
no, it’s not your salt,
though now
whenever I gnaw taffy,
slack-jawed, I spool boardwalks
from the stretched viscera,
and maybe I walk
on greening planks, and, sure,
it’s August again and my hand
is full of something warm, risen dough,
something, and I’m flinging bread
at seagulls once more
and, yes, my laugh sounds
too much like theirs,
but remember you said
you liked it, and the sand
is pearly underfoot, and you just
want to smooth it
instead of play with it,
and, yes, that makes me
laugh again, and, of course, I lurch
forward to November
where, you know, there is no rain
and where there is no sand
and, yes, it’s just me here,
and I know, I know.
–Art by Barbara Florczyk