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
Alphabet City 