It’s time once more to get
down to our small-town brunch.
We’re sharing an identical
caffeine headache but we
know that a swift combination of
dog hair and sore eye’d

stares will ****
the cures they send our way.
Today,
the menu is plagued by locust
taste, and it’s only after
we begin to recognize
drought in our speech that
the coffee comes.

Now, I know you’ve heard my spiel
about impact communication
(I have a fervent need to
talk minus the mouth as
middleman) but I’m currently
wishing for
the vivid fluidity of
talk before evaporation,

when it’s red on your tongue.
My longing’s born in
absence of such; here,
even the coffee’s dehydrated
and gray. I drink

and I dream of a summer spent
crafting paper boats out of paper
and breathing life into their
folds, sailing them
soggy in whirlpools and eddies
sorry to be seen off

too soon.
We finish our desert meal,
syrupless pancakes that
stick to the roofs of our mouths.
The bread we finish with
is stale earth. As we leave,

I imagine a return to the drained
creek. I can see now
your cracked hands
laying the disposable vessels
onto dry ground
and asking them
to float.