It is Friday.
pasta and wine for lunch
(which is always too short)
what we love never lasts long enough
I had gelato in rome
that
tasted like departure
dust encroached on tiptoes
and by fingertips.
the fountain steps drenched in shade
a pantheon of langourity.
(I think I just
made up
that word)
most names come from the Greek and Hebrew: they mean"
I read an excerpt once from a book called How
Does a Poem Mean?
But other names have no more origin other
than
our
imagination.
we mean what we want…we mean how we want.
I could sit all day
and type. Making meaning. Something from
nothing,
melting words between my fingers(tips)
staring at the plastic ring that sits on the neck of my miniature wine bottle
like a necklace and time marches on. The current becomes ancient.
I’ll have the mango please.