The Dolphin II
Then the phone rings- 'no data':
into the grinning barracuda over the range
tessled onto plaster from bits of glass
and given me by Jorge, my exile friend,
the dolphin-image alters;
(that's Jorge, who sometimes wishes he'd
stayed home in Cuba, but whose art
sells well and gets better- more complex,
adding figures, improving narrative-
he'll do ok if he steers clear of drugs) -
and the dolphin's away-
(irid fish, not the mammal,)
to come again another day,
leaving me the odor of salt spray
a sort of maritime uncinate fit
triggered by who knows what?
a blue burner flame? A cat's cry?
a tiny blood vessel bursting?
an enzyme that blossomed or failed to?
a synapse that synapsed or didn't?
The possibilities are endless and valid, all,
but none provable. Nothing is.
That's simply the way memory works.
Don't worry, though, it'll be back.
Heaven knows, we need our memories.
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