O it’s far away now in the mountains that a photograph guards the memory of a man. The photograph is all alone out there. The snow is falling eighteen years after his death. It covers up the door. It covers up the towel.

Richard Brautigan, Trout Fishing in Amerca


You had a small glass bottle of lemon soda
The straw bobbed up and down like a candy cane buoy on a yellow sea,
the biscotto on the table land beyond the water
You snuck bites from the archipelago of crumbs spread between you and me.

Small joys, you said, are worth living for.
I smiled and agreed.
But what I really wanted to do was jump on the tiny table,
kiss you on the lips, bite your nose,
grab your hand to run past the old italians screaming:

You are right!
You are right!