from the folder to be determined / 1962 to 2026

I dreamed

of Elaine San Marcos last night

sent to me from Hillside Manor

the brick and mortar housing project

down by the river

delivered there from Sao Miguel

surrounded by water.

 

little poem

my MacBook’s running late.

It’s old and stained with brownish blotches same as me.

I should track the stains down, down to

from whence they came, down to their original

colors, their original flavors, down to the errant

slips of the tongue caused by the fork’s inadequacy

to hold on to its goods.

the little plops upon the silvery platform

are dark stones dropped to a glistening snow.

this is a poem of stains because

something good had to become of them.