Good things come in words. I’ll take four
Fragments of imagination, dished up
In translation, like a recipe, like separate items
To be reintroduced to each other and carted
Around in my ruminant mind. Straw. Bag.
Salt. Salmon. All together now. I can almost
Feel the scratch of the straw, the weight
Of the bags loaded down, the taste of the salt
On the smell of the salmon, that rural salmon
Fresh from the wild, defeated but unspoiled, cut,
Preserved in the salt and the straw, like my thought.
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