David Veloz

In the hottest bar in Wisconsin
the singer sings about blind white panic
and crystalline faces coming in from the cold.
The dying singer sings about love,
and I hear the band behind her
heaving quiet sighs into the lights.

In the morning, the red crows bang
into high-water pylons and fold back into the sky.
The pines are deep in snow, but they don’t know it yet.
The mild sounds: a moist wing, a finger in a trout,
the girl with the hissing lantern
comes down stairs like water under ice.
This is my worst season, because I’ll follow anybody.

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This morning I chose YouTube over poetry —
cooking videos mostly, and specifically
the folded Japanese omelette called tamagoyaki.

Not because I was hungry, though I am —
I’m trying to lose weight
and fasting is part of my plan —
but because I could relate
to the aesthetics: thin layers
of eggs, dashi, sweet mirin wine,
daikon garnish, soy for flavor,
served like nori sushi in a line.

I’m drawn to cooking because my life lacks a plan.
Every day is a creation; I never know if I can
get it together, so it’s easier to watch Jacques Pepin.

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