pi & anne

an almost empty glass of Barolo,
listening to what late summer sounds like
with a sea-worn, fist-sized flint at my side

I’ve never been anxious for a role reversal,
I turn the baking tray three times, I press and push
the pizza dough . . .

cannot find the rust in your eyes—
a call to be more attentive
but I’m dry, a field of hulls of cacti

what is kindness, what is self-abandonment?
the kindnesses I asked for have been swallowed whole
in a never-ending syncope