Argument

The memory is beautiful, the place’s air,a beer, cloudless and sour, like sipping hours;but, in reality, our job was tocut rot and mold off apricots. What wasthen nausea — bin to filthy bucket — somehowseems almost playful now. And, like distillingliquor from fruits ascends a glass column,the sweetness spilled leaves off the unwanted:I, unlike you, forget our arguments.Some part of me warns this is bad, somehow,but, picnicking today, years later, ina park with you, with whom I cut awaythe good from not, I think, isn’t it more sweetto leave some thoughts, taking mostly the better.