THE SUN IN THE BAY
From infanthood she would gaze
at trees weaving. I can't
summon anything
beyond the window but stillness
and the tut tut of an SUV
endlessly locking. Sun's a checkpoint
washing out all you would see
with its ray. The lights flash
off after sunset and sew us
in black. This is dramatic
for some members of the family,
who scream like we're falling
from earth. Purple sky, wind,
language in the dark.
Words slur. We slide
like plates on jelly. Every item
in my fingers falls. I hold thoughts
then lose them. Cora sings
Spills happen as cheerios rain down.
I catch the dog's reflection
in the window. Walking through
the house, startled by
ongoingness. I wish I were
younger and could remember
more for my daughter. My stories
filtered through decades, I
tell one to myself, an image
of an image more than
the body thrown into air,
sunlit gauze on water,
my father's eyes mirrors.
TYPO
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