drift in at odd moments, one of those who have left the circle
of daily living, yet close by always, marrow of dreams not meant
for the push and pull of days. Have a good life you said, as if
you think that scrabble of words can branch its way out of memory.
A door shut in silence against a pearled scar.
I give you this. Some things need to be kept from the material
where they can be held safe from the woundings of the world
—unpossessed by the warp in the mirror—
its curvatures reflecting the strangeness of our days.
Best to treasure how the sails bent towards the water on that windy day—
the dark skimming of the hull against the foam, hissing with sighs.