on an island of stairs

in the church garden

she tells me of her struggle

to finish anything

we have just seen

dozens rush

a mic & podium,

all jostling

for a ménage with God

she hears the Chinese

word for mermaid,

reads a devoted

fragment about feeling

deserted in English

& with the slow charm

of oblivion hides

morsels of lemon-bergamot

cake behind her lips

I wrap 

mine around them

like quotation marks

someone cradling an illusion

comes to shoo us along –

what we think is a cat

is actually a sweater

moon eyes she tips her grinning plate

with its film of lavender

into the trash

without looking