Peter Camilleri
I.
No longer calls to mind beauty,
neither love nor braille,
not soft sea thrashed sand,
nor the spire of snail parallels.
No one recalls a scallop’s
crutch, frills, the bivalve—
no one counts the lines time took
from fossiled, liquid, you.
You fix light now. Line nozzles
like a moll, set for a price.
II.
In a red vest
she stood like a statue
behind the register.
I’d stepped in
for a gallon of water.
Krishnamurti says
to seek good service
at the local petrol.
Candy, condoms, ice-cream—
lotto, beer, toiletry.
Cigarettes.
The aisles like
morning dew
in spring.
I handed her some
dollar bills and change.
Our midnight hands,
two strangers—
one behind the counter,
one obliged to pay.
A ghost beyond her role,
she didn’t feel alone.
She greeted me
dispassionately.
On the earth, and
in the store: we,
the only living souls.
I was unafraid.
It had been a long day.
I was there, then I left;
maybe I stayed.
