Like during the earthquake. You bounced me on the trampoline, I said.
I’m sitting there lying and I try to nap feeling the springs...
I broke off. I watched runners
pass before bright pulses sliding east to west along the waves.
I hadn’t noticed the eastmost sides advancing tugging the rest ahead
and thought they came up uniform.
Two small dogs snapping on a sandbar circled behind the curtains.
I cut the water and ripped a paper towel.
Again, aging isn’t like with whiskey, my friend, C. H. Frank, said,
studying the table. Even if some people...(the next bit
was lost as he went for plates)...
push resistless. During our earthly time on earth...
I’m sorry, I said, some minutes later; I was elsewhere.
I refocused. Teflon collected the skylight my bust split
in the grease and, being changed, we
later, on what I believe is called the “portico,”
picked apart wicker. Cocoa? Toby Baxter asked,
turning toward Mrs. Baxter.
Our eyes followed his to where she stood in her pajamas,
a kimono. She braced the jug against her chest.
Two new guests arrived as she began to tell her vision.
They were Professor Ramirez
looking like a stick bug despite smart sleeves
and a pale-complected young man.
The latter knocked inaudibly on the brick as they turned the corner.
The bell from Mt. Carmel sounded three.
Crickets sneezed in the cinquefoil.
I look up from the book I’ve been reading uncomprehendingly
for chapters, Mrs. Baxter said. The sun’s disorienting the breezeway
angles and I set the doll upright, opening 
its eyes. Baba dumps a colander of potato peels
by the mum and disappears behind the stable. Then, yellow charabancs with red
wheels go up the road. Behind them, six girls on five bicycles are riding
through the milkweed; one on pegs with her hands on the hands on the handles
turns. Someone said, the voice says, you are incapable of youth, seer, and compelled
by those who make vocations of leisure like these
girls, laugh in the throat with calming eyes, find tears
enmeshed in the screen door—Tears? I interrupt, Mrs. Baxter said.
This clue is the only one, the voice rebuts.                                                    
We can nor induce nor recommend a better
searchlight; for the circumspect to turn their gaze outward it remains
to be proved outward, just as for you, love, if you could know its meaningless
texture, feel its total form, would not satisfy even
your current thirst: this pusillanimous, counterfeit
Ideal language it’s love to assert, and the desuetude of the diktat,
and praise earned and that issued.
I felt brave. 

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