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.

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