Today, by Natalie Breuer

in ,

Today I saw a bonsai tree for sale in the window of a liquor store

 

 

& today I found a tiny clump of concrete that looked

like a pair of lungs

& today I threw darts at a board, barefoot

& today I poured cajeta on toast &

looked down

& today I saw a dozen wasps swarm through a

mass of evening light

& today a streetlamp burned itself cold.

I almost told you about it.

 

Once, you said that intimacy was an impossibility

for us, but at my apartment you left

a watercolor of an ovenbird in a pepper tree

& a handful of white hammer oysters

& a string of Tibetan prayer flags

& a Louis Wain print of cats playing hockey.

 

I remember you

& you, paying for film slides at luster photo on avenue a

& you, drinking pesole on the kitchen floor & coughing

& you, throwing up in a dogwood bush

& you, hanging an opaque sheet from the ceiling,

standing on a wooden chair

& your skin soft like lime oil

& your skin.