Breakfast on the Terrace
by Rustin Larson
Prism vase, asters blue as glacier ice,
baskets of strawberries, croissants,
goblets lit with orange juice,
& the cathedral distant, the boat house
flying its flag in an international zone,
one hand of the clock tracing the sun’s
theoretical position in a season
almost simultaneous with our own.
On the bureau you forgot your brush.
We made an adventure that morning, rushed
down to buy a new one in the stone
partition of the old city.
Some day, for whatever reason
we will leave this reality.
I know I will regret it, miss the familiarity:
your face, your dress, & how
there was never enough day
to know you in each unknowable way.
Leave them there—molecules, salts.
A faint mist rides the glint of waves.
Enter the next room less than sleep or more,
lighter than a spider’s web, or
join the street’s bustle. How they make
preparations; on pushcarts
bottles glisten the reflected blue of a lake.