For Gabby

July 4, 2006

Sometimes there is no direct comfort. The coffee is black sand in my mouth. My blankets are sandpaper. I can’t curl far enough to disappear. I sit and wait but it refuses to rain. These times it’s better to give the words away. I imagine her at the counter with flour on her hands, kneading. She doesn’t know how lovely she is. He reads to her. Still it refuses to rain. In the heat the salt should be bitter in my mouth, but I’m back on the beach beneath an impossibly early sunset. The darting kite is dark on dark. She hands me a skinny spool that pulls in my hand like a new bird. She’s fed all the line out into the greedy mouth of the wind. All I have to do is fly.

Tags: Psyche