Of Salt and Oranges

a grandfather clock in the corner of the room turns its grayhead and sounds. it is the hour of salt... it is the hour of aged reason. and i have lost all affection for the sweet naval of oranges, which clamor one on top of another on the kitchen table. perhaps if i was an expressionist i would express in driest terms the preservation of ramses II, or the way of the fermented dill pickles in the back of my refrigerator. it is the hour of the second cup of coffee, it is the hour of the coptic eulogy, and i am as horus or osiris in the twelfth dynasty at midnight. now in the kitchen three chairs sit crookedly next to me. with crystaline hands i gather upon the table morton salt from the cupboard and pour it into a gray dispenser. i set it next to the fruit bowl with ornate green vines drawn along the sides of it. but it is the dried antiquities of cumin and saffron that i seek. i seek the harbinger of life after life. but all i have is a 15 jar tiered spice rack sitting on a shelf across the room and a little less time.