you just can’t get some things sometimes
or sometimes any time
eluding us
they lie in their homes
in their home lands
when we write their latitudes and longitudes
the digits slide off the page
nests of sapphires rubies emeralds opalines
shaded far away
by acanthus leaves
washed by what seem to us inchoate speaking airs
tongues lavishing unintelligible complexities
on their ellipsoid shapes
you
here
you go into a store shopping bag in hand
looking over the rutabagas and such
loaves of bread made of grains and sand
blended with a bit of water and thirst
exiting
you feel
vaguely absent
not quite forlorn
is this what we were made for?
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