The Juice of What Was

Wondering to what forms

the green grapes and cantaloupe
of that perfect day
have now decomposed and

What is there left for me to love?

I love the juice of what was.

Still tarting a region of my tongue
when I bite it by accident
and feel the stab of you.

I love the unspoken feeling
and, less so, the language
I desperately arrive at
regarding it.

If I were to skin my knee
along the trailer park sidewalk
spanning Keego Harbor—

where we once floated
like mercury on heat

a perfect summer element—

then I could feel it again
more acutely
than if I were to, say, list
every business establishment
linking that distance.

I do wish
instead of cells

my body were the connection
of nail salons
coney island restaurants
optometrist offices
pet groomers
and the gas station

(the nearest one, that
I loved so much [prior to
where the bathroom
was identical
to the domestic ones
in our

I will always love
the things I ever loved.

My love for my world

local and enormous

cools unconsciously there
on the wetted tiles
of my father's bathroom

(the larger one, clean
as it was [when my mother
still lived there]).

Let me die on that
midnight bathroom floor

in the lovely world
stilled and frozen
with perfection.

I will be reborn instantly
from a mysterious litter
inside the cabinet beneath
the sink.

Like Teemu—
slick with birth
in the Vankers' mud-room

I will exit and love it all

with newborn

all over again.