Here the space where reality slips into trance,
the gossamer haunting of habit – a side of the bed, a tumbler
tapped on the bar before slipping fire down
an upturned throat, the ghost trail of fingers felt
on the breast before the seeker searches the hand
out to do its real work – querencia. More than fondness
for a place or a certain light, it is the tip of poison
in the pleasure, the lily of the valley with its curved,
white petals perched on a child’s tongue like a bell
just about to be rung.
