Nature Studies, and: The Lost Track of Time

Nature Studies

     first, it was a short piece of lupine,passed around the group, for us     to smell its intoxicating wine. then,the toxic corn lily, from which he     peeled leaf after leaf until nothingremained, to reveal the illusion     of stalk. next, a still berryless sprigof mistletoe, plucked from the jolly     parasitic kiss it had given a babyjeffrey pine’s twiggy trunk. &. &.     my heart snapped with each stem,every time he stepped off the trail     to return with a mystery in hand,a present conjugated into past tense.

The lost track of time

now that i’m on this track, i can’t find my way back to the main drag. in the middle of 2020, i carelessly drifted off onto a street not quite a cul-de-sac, but still sacked or socked in, a cloud having swung so low i got stuck, the flow of traffic — distinguishable thursdays, next weeks, augusts, and aughts — carrying on getting carried away without me, just off-scream off-screen. obscene that i seem to have delegated dailiness so long that my mind’s convinced it’s no longer essential. with last year misty, my brain has relegated the whole of pre-pandemic life to a fog. or is that exhaust fumes? will i need eye surgery to see my way clear back to that spring in paris, that year in the berkshires, that north carolina decade? cataracts over cackalack. the question is: who was i when we last hugged so close our bones met? where are the coffee spoons of yesteryear? i’ve measured out my life in package deliveries and what’s in bloom. the time is now thirteen boxes past peonies. if you can locate my whenabouts on a calendar, come get me. i don’t know where i’m going, but i need a ride.