pitchperfect light; the sky a blue vessel

pure enough to slake perennial thirsts

“we’re living in paradise,” Jennifer exclaims

ceanothus up from its doze puts on indigos

Mrs. Oakley Fisher’ s sagging blossoms

dispense sweet infusions

I buy a begonia, leggy as a foal

for Jennifer’s shady garden

why it’s called ‘Grey Feather’ I hope to learn

we’re doing an exchange:

gardening for accordion lessons

simple syncopation precipitates mind-b

oggle “you’re doing great,” she says, and

on a day like this I almost could believe it

at least on some ontological level

knowing someday I’ll be able

to play a song so hackneyed

it makes people around the world groan

how could life get more extravagant

y ay ay ay canta y no llores.


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