Taxes Aside

Taxes aside and the pile of papers
and notes. I call K___; we haven’t
talked for years and there he
is on a bus far away, still sounding
a little like her. Music in the
background crackles like static,

lost voices on a ham radio. Remember
those? I’ve stopped listening to
the news, instead I think of public
and private lives; there were 5
maybe 6 cameras in Las Islitas
Mariscos, but maybe it’s OK–

we have crossed the line and
can’t return. It’s late, the dog wakes
and licks her paws, the hills are
black; the moon is a round
kasina like the back of my
soy sauce dish. Someone has
placed a hawk’s feather on
my table; still trying to imagine
where it all goes from here.