The sperm trees are in bloom:
why don't you just embrace that?
Colors keep stacking up
like dinner plates in the butler's pantry,
immaculate milk-glasses,  
one on top of the other. 
Stop calling it that.
It isn't a pantry.
We don't have a butler.
And then, Mr. Karp turns to you and says,
Ok Morales, what did you feel? 
Which holiday? Whose patio?
I don't recognize that garden.
I don't ever remember standing there.
I have to close my eyes to see
how to write, how to keep it
disposable.  If only I could borrow
your hand, remember how to trace
the English Channel.  What year
was that taken?  You look thin:
that must have been before we quit 
everything, before we moved.