Simple

I want to stay home and glue things to
other things and rip pages out of my
ancient dictionary and sort through
all my old stamps, some of them torn
from old letters, postmarks still intact.

I want to finger the Japanese papers
which arrived in a packet of blue
and lay out all the expansive sheets
of rice paper, handmade paper, paper
with names I can never remember.

I want to make cylinders of the three
sheets of stiff paper I bought last week
and cut slots for light and place them
over candles. And sit amongst that filtered
light and drink wine, a Malbec-Syrah blend.

I want olives and a good toothy bread
and Irish butter and bits & bobs of cheese.
And pickled things: asparagus, beans,
peppers. Salted salmon.

I want
I want