on the coldest winter night i read to you about pablo's
day filled with fish. "..and geraniums.." and geraniums,
while you drive us toward someplace and i worry 'bout whether
the waitress was upset when she saw me stare at her brown teeth.

we are finished with looking through cookbooks trying to find
recipes for you now that you're finished with bread - it was
the size and colours of the pictures that impressed us, not
the number or variety of recipes inside.

we were crouched down and close enough to feel each other's breath
while we looked at deep fried chicken parts with fat glistening
and plates with white bean sprouts, bright limes and shredded orange carrots

beside bowls of beef soup filled with fat rice noodles - and how
warm the earth was then with the snow fallen, covering it
with softness that will all melt: the streets will be rivers soon, love.

Moi, j'avais jamais rien dit. Rien

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