bygone decades, homemade bread

ina, manuel, i give out names on badges
circular sewing around the edges of your
face and eyes and we play perched on old
sofas and smell the deferential perfume of
an old woman who may have died since i
last remembered to visit her. my dues have
long since been paid to this present decade;
i have vigils and appointments to keep with
bygone decades. albert allard scrawled his name
on the back of a picture-postcard, told me to
"look me up if you're ever in 1986." bruce kensall
watches me from up on the rocky hill, and i
wave at him because i like to greet his beard and
his camera. grizzly bears and fishing birds greet
his lens and i wait under the peeling striped
wallpaper for the smell of spinning wheels and
yellow film. everyday he grows more conscience-
stricken and upset; i kiss him under the statue
of a spanish lover; he stands by the tombstone
with an umbrella, silhouetted against a glaring
sunset and i tell him, "there are no clouds, love;
i made this world and this is no time for it to rain."

on the tea and sugar train the days go by slow; my
newest friend is drying sugar cane in the sun on the
toy mud. robert nininger threw his green jacket up
on the hood of the van and we talked for an hour of
weathered board and gilt frames; the demise of the
monarchy and the lift you feel in a boat on waves. a
child kissed another child and i feel like that, sometimes.
you kiss me and i shiver like a foolish child, and smile.

every day you grow more conscience-stricken and upset,
so i put my hair up and watch you from the window of
a blue train. i play accordion music and flash my teeth
like the flash of a camera in your direction; "i promise,
love, i made this world and this is no time for it to rain."