Sweet potato by Melissa drying
together in one heap.

I make a one-cup dough everyday,
roll it or fill it.

We’ve seawater still on our fingertips,
a crust of hot crystal salt.

I’m different – you said,
through the open window – I’m the one looking up.

You were late. I watched you gather lilac and lace
by the unlatched gate.

Your breathing stills matter about the fire,
all being is cured aromatic.

And so able to last
forever.

© Chagall 2016

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