Elegy

By Karl Zuehlke

I don’t like the words on days I am sediment.

Days on the couch. Endless reruns. A cup never empty.

Those flowers deserve to be in a vase. They belong there.

As pink is to pinky. Casual is to casualty. As harp is to harpoon.

You are circling me. I let you. You let me circle you.

Sunrise over water. Sunset over water. The sun didn’t move at all.

I fashion songs out of circles so I can X them out.

Crease me down my perforations. Pull me until I am loose-leaf.

I say everything was laid out in pairs, and I mean a table for two.

Ice-water strings the pitcher to the cups on the table.

My spine is a string of bells your hand moves across.

You order a garden salad. I order the oysters and find a pearl.