Come, let me strain the raspberries

tonight, stir the sauce—glassy the sugar,

not too tart—pour it, wipe up the crimson

islands and return

to where I learned the revenue

of taste. Taste that’s acquired an appetite

for place, rich with accrued mobilities:

sun on the slender sill at early day,

 

sun on the orange brick—mid-morn—

sun in the cordons of a slingshot noon,

that settles on our dinner bell at dusk.

A man’s mind hovers

 

over brews and blends and recipes he

stored in sturdy, lifelong cabinets;

his lips keep company with old assorting

hands. How quickly he becomes, once

more, the hungry boy, perplexed by thick

and simple sweeteners. For him

someone has stirred, all day, all night—

long spoon along an earthen jar—this fruit.