DS Maolalai

i am reading. it's friday. the fly rotates
slowly, drawn by the cheap
tesco wine. book shuts—he is pressed 
and preserved like a flower. 
there's a similar instant
in one of the paperbacks
which i took from my grandfather's
shelf when the house went for sale. 
he was hard and a catholic
literary man. leaves of grass
by walt whitman, and several
los angeles detective books. 
we leave out our leavings
like fingerprints ovenbaked
on the top rims of amateur 
coffee cups. moments forever
and ever. new 
punctuation, imprinted, page 225.