Rachel Carlson		when the world means little words are items days are numbers dreams have a certain sent of                   dust, and a color-- rust. happiness is a happy myth and sadness is   seductive.  the endless sound of endlessness  the rushing mouth of water  the tasteless tongue  of tastelessness!  the meaningless of color.  and yet  and yet, yellowest! of Yellows. the spring is spring of    daffodils an inch  below the surface. ----------------- Casper, you are still my favorite lover I wore you for Halloween oh the scent of plastic promise and fragile security of elastic pressed to hair behind ear your large hand on my back no question of anything feeling right when she brought you home you were just lying boldly on the table all silly unapologetic smiles up at me, it was all so black and white. we were meant to be.		it happened that I was suddenly at a garden party Basil on my tongue; I sit on my couch at the long edge of winter; A story where the end is unnecessary. We cannot care who comes out alive. And I am on the green grass. It’s something about the Pesto. To the right, a wooden arch framing the ocean. I am wearing crisp, white sleeves and the breeze blows through my fingers blessing my bright red cocktail. In the hairs on my neck I know that he is here. In a shady corner he jokes about the young widowers in his neighborhood, his hands gesture his protestation of the term Spinster for its lack of sex appeal. Or he may be long gone; a flattened mirage beside a curling ocean road and the garlic and the basil- a bit of spice blowing wild in his place.