Where did we leave off, and what were you saying?
I was holding my fingers in a damp bundled cloth, and Yeats—
One of us was destined to pass out from the intensity
Of the afternoon color.
I keep having the same funny dream—
I’m trying to grab a giant pearl
In the ocean but it’s greased and the waves rock against
My will. And I’m just dreaming, anyway.
It becomes a kite. And I wash my hands.
Down from ten I count to zero,
Each blue ribbon tied to the string,
And each spindrift of sunny daylight
And more strings. Even stuck against solid things.
I am no longer looking ahead or behind.