Nervous that way I take peanut butter from the jar
where blinking and licking overlap
messily and focus is the last thing on
my mind.
There, just there scooped
is where the thought
returns.
No high flying; no explanation
just back, and the jar gets
put on the shelf of the
cupboard
of wood, the oldest part of the house,
and I cannot recall to write it the smell of
peanuts jarred and ant poison and southern
yellow
pine.
Exceptional journeys sometimes have unexceptional returns. How do beginnings and ends get marked? Tree rings, expiration dates on jars
