A book of regional Mexican recipes, perhaps,
a memory card. A “Bingo card” for e-publishing
arguments. No bright words, no golden bells
but a bright day, bright sky, some kind of disease
sapping the pine trees. Literally in the sap. On
the mountain meadow trail. Reading the poems;
an old man and his sailboat. Skirting the
poison oak, the very large squirrel. Gray as
a suit. Sheen of sweat, caused by ibuprofen.
The dog sleeping, at last. No lucid dreaming.
A kiss. A headache. No lucidity; I accept that.

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