Why does the wheat in the field bend 
as soon as the crickets hush, long

before the wind's dark, curving scythe
reaches out across the countryside?

Why does the smell of heat escaping
from the earth taste like the bowl

of a pewter spoon? At the coffee
shop, Sarah is the one who likes

to bring dream flavors to life:
blackberry with an undercurrent

of tarragon and almond, ginger
in a haze of orange so coffee's

bitter heart is complex after all,
full of old drama besides no sugar

anymore, no cream. Once, you parted
my lips; I tasted licorice and copper.

Once I shunned the heat of peppers until
I could say their names— Tellicherry

and Malabar; Kampot, Muntok, and
the Szechuan that numbs the tongue.

How could we call to the elusive
that we don't even know we crave?

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