Needle sized fish bones
take shapes on a plate.
I rearrange them again and again
as they accumulate.
The sun on my cheeks
makes it hard for Dora to tell
if I have consumed too much wine.
A nearby Buddhist practices emptiness
while she fills the vessel of her body.
October has such a righteous scent of decay.
My fish came from an ocean whose floor
it would only visit in death, if then.
Dora comments that today’s hospital gown
was onion skin thin
with an unpleasant texture.
Unhurried, my knife separates
peppered garlic butter broccoli florets
so they may astonish my tongue
one at a time.
copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney