There it is, burst of green pepper
crisp, bright, gone. Or there, the faint whisp
of fresh lilac barely scented
even when I walk through clusters,
panicles bobbing against skin.
A smear of dates — brown sugar with
apples pressed with the weight of night.
Enough hot sauce to burn my tongue
so it can remember texture
and taste. Today we cleared cupboards,
and I rested. Walked. Rested. Scrubbed,
and rested more, fogged, unaware
of what was fading around me.
Glimpses between the yawning gaps.
I don’t know what I’ve been doing,
but it isn’t living. Not quite.