by Myrta Koehler

Artwork, “Dusk” by Sloane Adler

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Day seeping into consciousness
all itching blank
expecting sense

Don’t stir, the sun
is feeding on that alley
don’t let your flight of thoughts
exceed the speed of light
devouring and digesting atoms
into reliefs

Back entrance of a café and a chair
whose cushion soaked up most
of last year’s rain
Exit: the waitress, shaking
crumbs of croissants off the table cloth

We could be
reading out aloud the first line
of each volume in your father’s library
chasing your neighbor’s cat
through narrow streets until we’re lost
we’ll save that for another day

A chair, a door and nothing else
to make this perfect but my gaze,
no sense at all. I might
just soak awareness, squeeze it and distill
the moment so to last me
for a year, or two, each day
to take a drop into my morning tea

Exit: the waitress. did she not
drop something there? I think
it was her face, but don’t you bother
she will pick it up once she has tossed
that cigarette.

A backstage to prepare for life, with props and proper space!
just sneak into this moment
as into a borrowed shell
and cuddle up within, without a thought
and drag it to the Hesperides
and back

Already moonlight’s flooding in
between those walls
a lemon curd sponge moon, a nonsense day
Let’s have this instant just like crumbs of croissant
taken up with buttery fingers from white plates

our breath a looking glass, our gaze a tent,
let’s pitch a moment,
make the world our home

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