On the Patio Table

Your glass-cold belly holds
my cheek above the waterline.
The faded zönt* inside
your belly-hole keeps sunlight
from my ears. You smell
like rust and ashes left
that haven’t blown away, of days
when I was reading Milton, drinking
beer and eating pickles with the breeze.
The chairs were different then and leaves
were not yet brown – the jasmine blossom’s
fragrance more pronounced. I wonder
now of Paradise; I had it then
and knew it, plotting to remember
that midsummer at some future time.
And now I do, though to be frank, I guess
it was a different table too.


* spelled зонт in Russian, means umbrella

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3 Responses to On the Patio Table

  1. Hillary says:

    …drinking bear and eating pickles with the breeze.

    this poem reminds me of one of my favorite images from some very famous poem I cannot remember the name of that talks about “late coffee and oranges.”

  2. Hillary says:

    I mean beer, of course. Bear’s are a bear to drink. And dangerous.

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