The call for the final act jolts us
like the frisson of a rising trill
from an ephemera, perhaps a dream,
that you have, indeed, returned.
But the passing of clear, lake green
tea between us is an intermission
that is just that—a passing moment.
So little time. Like a quick tremor
on my throat. And your fingers must
yet again release my unwilling hands
from its fevered clasp, its grip under
this empty table. O, how fast thought
careens into a dying dream.

—Albert B. Casuga