Casida of Always Wanting

Do I want milk, do I want apples,
    or do I want a plate of sliced green

mangos to dip in salted shrimp?
    Is the sleeve of one shirt torn,

do the hems of my trousers
    tongue open above my ankles?

Has the sea come with a message,
    has the gull lifted the bandage

from its cheek? The bees that forage
    in the coffee groves bring back

a honey tinged with bittersweet. Their
    industry thickens in the jar

and I return night after night to dip
    my finger into its depths.


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