H. Pellikka, "Kaleidoscope," 2005
Dream-memory fragments, crumbs left in the bottom of a sack full of childhood places—as if I had eaten them all, as if I could. Places I’ve lived, sweet and salty as popcorn disappearing on my tongue: dandelions pushing aside a sidewalk, or naphthene aromatics from a fresh-oiled asphalt road. Late summer in Rockland County, shot through with veins of light from Lake Mary near Flagstaff. The lost bits of towns and cities. (I wake from my nap, finger the broken pieces still muzzy from sleep, lick the salt off my fingertips from whose tears I don’t, can’t recall.)
