What have I forgotten? Milk for bones—
Salt for blood—A fresh loaf
for sleep. Outside, Sunday morning
has expired. The line is long
for this hour. When the doors open
the squawks of gulls blown too far inland
announce nothing is impossible. The cashier
vanishes again for the cigarette key
and the moment slows the way moments do
when the eye is fixed for too long—:
for sleep. Outside, Sunday morning
has expired. The line is long
for this hour. When the doors open
the squawks of gulls blown too far inland
announce nothing is impossible. The cashier
vanishes again for the cigarette key
and the moment slows the way moments do
when the eye is fixed for too long—:
