VOLUNTARY REDUNDANCY

 
I dream of curry.  Not Steph,
Thai green, Indian red.
You are mouthing a word,
Referee or refugee when
I awake above the cloud line
Thick cirrus nestled in the valley,
The sky a circus blue
Like the fixtures in my grandparents’
Bathroom, the shag on their toilet seat,
Every other tiny floor tile.
That room always smelled
Like toothpaste and recent use—
Cold, crisp, fluorescent, human.
Generations feed one another.
We toss some things, carry others,
Pretend what’s left is uniquely ours.
Now I lie here in this cabin
Three hundred miles from decent curry
Mt. Gardner above my toes,
The pixels of the universe
Like fireflies gossiping,  
An entropy so pure
The mind makes patterns
Where none exist.