nothing ����i'm afraid, unless you count all
another ginger soda, spilt sushi,
me the wuss, christ's other cheek, or a small
man fearless of mixing, and so woozy

secondly ����i remember warm mittens
where there were none, an impossible hearth
and thin soup cold, or in winter thickened,
each bubble and spoonful playing a part

in a sonnet ����i later wrote, this one
as yet unfinished, each word a vestige,
dry twigs still lean toward their fantasy sun,
and ice seems like memory, only image.

what is it then, secured within the real
which knows not the real? what we felt, we feel.



�2005 by John Eivaz