Foolish Weblogger Child

Should we wake to the regret at the end of time
doing what people have always done
and say it was not enough?

When I have draped my veins on Sardinia,
danced vibrant among shrieking canvasses
and brought my boat in from the reeds,
I shall become a fish,
bones like these.

On certain nights, the moon turns our lawn
into green acrylic where we sip Syrah and mint tea
until all we know is the sound
of our breathing among the whispering leaves.

[But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I’m gripped by a cherishing so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m speechless:
I am living.] I remember you.

I see how you wait in silence for silence
To say: write it in, tell me who I am now.

[Father, the thick air is murderous.]
I would breathe water.

A book that can be read only in the dark.

We move closer,
and when I reach
for it, I find…
a perfect paper airplane.

And for the briefest instant, it almost feels like we’re together again.

We had never seen this world
but we sensed it, like a cat’s breath against our wrists:
we were married, the bees loved us, the ocean might relent,
the child muttered over a handful of dust and spit.