The score for birdsong was asemic.
The narcissist was lonely in the rain.
The shopping cart lady lived nowhere but also inside the loop of memory.
On the Pacific rim in drizzle I bought mochi ice cream and Kim Chee.
I said “I love you” and kissed you standing on the street corner.
Without the palm tree there would be no cuneiform.
Sad udon steamed in broth were actually quite tasty.
I drank coffee as if I was trying to remember everything at once.
What have I forgotten? My To Do list, my childhood, my shoes outside the door.
Who else did I kiss on a wet street corner?
How many lines did I set out to write?
Was I a Picasso or a Frieda Kahlo looking for my twin in a mirror?
You can see the gap in the volcanos between skyscrapers when the clouds clear.
Miriam Sagan's books include Castaway (Red Mountain, 2023) and Border Line (Cholla Needles, 2023). Her poetry was set to music for the Santa Fe Women's Chorus, incised on stoneware for two haiku pathways, and projected as video inside an abandoned building during the pandemic under the auspices of Vital Spaces, New Mexico.