Minnaloushe.

 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. 

The string section.

 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.

Fragment.

 Chop me up into smaller orange parts, saying,

All will finally be revealed.

Take a look as the sun drops his damp bath towel

On the floor of his private field.