There's nothing like shopping to ruin a day. It was especially bad today. Why weren't all those people at the lake? It was a holiday! I should have had the stores to myself! There's no point in staying in this town on the 4th, anyway, since fireworks are prohibited, so you don't even get to see a kid blow his fingers off unless you go to Chico or Oroville. Or the lake. Go to the lake, people! Give me liberty by giving me dearth— of you! Anyway. At least I got some good cherries at a fairly decent price. Since our cherry tree died I've missed being able to go out back to pick cherries on the warm evenings of early summer. I seldom buy them because they are one of the costliest fruits here. Safeway's bargain allowed me to indulge in a bit of nostalgia. I sat on the back porch eating cherries and listening to the crickets as dusk edited the landscape into darkness. I'll be able to do this all week, since I bought two pounds. Ah, the sybaritic luxury of it all! Then dinner was late, and I didn't even care. Sunday Verse Unfinished Duet by Richard Siken At first there were too many branches so he cut them and then it was winter. He meaning you. Yes. He would look out the window and stare at the trees that once had too many branches and now seemed to have too few. Is that all? No, there were other attempts, breakfasts: plates served, plates carried away. He doesn't know what to do with his hands. He likes the feel of the coffeepot. More than the hacksaw? Yes, and he likes flipping the chairs, watching them fill with people. He likes the orange juice and toast of it, and waxed floors in any light. He wants to be tender and merciful. That sounds overly valorous. Sounds like penance. And his hands? His hands keep turning into birds and flying away from him. Him being you. Yes. Do you love yourself? I don't have to answer that. It should matter. He has a body but it doesn't matter, clean sheets on the bed but it doesn't matter. This is where he trots out his sadness. Little black cloud, little black umbrella. You miss the point: the face in the mirror is a little traitor, the face in the mirror is a pale and naked hostage and no one can tell which room he's being held in. He wants in, he wants out, he wants the antidote. He stands in front of the mirror with a net, hoping to catch something. He wants to move forward into the afternoon because there is no other choice. Everyone in this room got here somehow and everyone in this room will have to leave. So what's left? Sing a song about the room we're in? Hammer in the pegs that fix the meaning to the landscape? The voice wants to be a hand and the hand wants to do something useful. What did you really want? Someone to pass this with me. You wanted more. I want what everyone wants. He raises the moon on a crane for effect, cue the violins. That's what the violins are for. And yes, he raises the moon on a crane and scrubs it until it shines. So what does it shine on? Nothing. Was there no one else? Left-handed truth, right-handed truth, there's no pure way to say it. The wind blows and it makes a noise. Pain makes a noise. We bang on the pipes and it makes a noise. Was there no one else? His hands keep turning into birds, and his hands keep flying away from him. Eventually the birds must land.