Alec Hershman With My Part Time Machine I Can Go On a Little Vacation

In the dishes the spoon caught the water
at just the place to make a crystal lily-pad,
a winter reminder
that fountains could be hiding anywhere.
True. Though the morning is still ornery,
anticipating a shortness in gray light.

I have a fantasy over the clatter
in which gothic alligators
spy upon a tropical road.
We walk backwards to the ocean.
There are sandals in the cattails,
marsh birds too. And the foreclosures
of the shanty clouds cover all the bluffs.

Somewhere a poor schmuck in Michigan
is dreaming me here,
gluing himself together with oatmeal
and dressing to shovel snow.
I'm a long way from the solemn hands
he'll use to lift icicles
down from the eaves, in a wide rack, careful,
and carry the silent harp of glass,
involuntarily as breath. He does not know you.
You float beside me like the holiest
of amoebas, and hold my hand as only
an amoeba can. We rove until the sea
is just a strip of pewter and although
the blue is in my eye, I know I must land
back there with him—in his snowy recognitions,
in the brief room of the semblance,
where the walls would soak if touched.


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