On Reading Gary Gildner*

Synesthesia aroused,
I didn't know if I heard his call,
or stepped, half on purpose,
in a mound of fresh buffalo dung.
Either way, he changed
the way my nostrils flared.

Inhaling the view through
his windows, I held on, fearing
the distance might take me
for keeps. But I kept on reading,
stopped assuming anything,
let sail away the word favorite.

Each story was a different taste:
the blue-eyed sound of Thrasher's
dream (You are almost home),
the physical, green relish of this:
People who leave food 
on their plates are lonely.

I sent him the Polish vodka with the bison
on the label, a blade of grass inside,
and wrote "na zdrowie!" because
I wanted to believe the myth
that the golden blade, an aphrodisiac,
would keep him from going extinct.

* ("A Million-Dollar Story" and "Somewhere Geese are Flying")