Does it trouble you
love’s pandering
collecting us
like loose change
in a coffee cup
not fully felt
but already touched
sometimes carelessly
sometimes carefully
by so many hands
I don’t know how long I will live
but I am certain
of distraction each summer
ants inhabiting orange dregs
sap drunk insects
slapped dead against skin
the mercurial numbness
of whiskey in my blood
is it garlic that clings to this cast iron pan
the taste linking one meal to the next
or fat or vinegar
I’m holding so much
so full
in the outstretched palm of my hand.