#65

New dreams for old. J's blond hair wet while I search the cabinet for aspirin. 5 pills or 2? The toothbrushes tilt in their steel canister, touch. On the phone it is Rich, breakfast. The milk carton's morning advertisement. An echo in return, my voice. "I can't tell," he says, "if you really want me there or not?" Bam. The vagaries of fashion.

Elaine was there, and the one besides Lula. She sketched me once in charcoal, my clothes in a heap at the ground. Try to keep the rest from rising. Bookstore. A sudden decision. The past that's passed, now closing. And the back, far back, through the towering overstock, up the stairs to a door. Ross and Sky, Chuck and Holly. A giant cave, and kitchen, bed. Magazine posters taped on walls that curve.

The Living, Blake called it. As what's far from us. Or that book of poems I read him. I carried a camera all day, forgot it and retraced my steps. Ran my hands through scarves in stores. Adrian's smile a treasure. And over coffee Rebecca, in red jacket, crossed and uncrossed her legs, and spoke of signs and film. Follow her there. Don't recall Deleuze. Forget the anaesthesiast.

Maybe someone somewhere else. The bar next door, cartoons on one wall, video golf the other. Remember. Drinks and dessert. Anita's indigo scarf. Darby and Elyse in congress. Oh, yes, she said, still in riding garb. Until we all paired and the curtains fell. Next time, I tell her, bring a switch. Another round. We'll get a prompter, and raise some hell. Write: I should be fun.