You are being led to yourself
putting things down and picking things up.
Every night you wash in loss and satisfaction.
You have not yet learned the language of your prayers
but have felt them move inside you like a child.
You’ve blamed your tears on roadkill,
on the suffering of women in India,
and of course on your own life. You’ve laughed
at the bridge spanning the river like a brassiere,
have loved the way waves wear the light--
that clinquant wrinkled green!
Someone spilled a bag full of diamonds and never noticed.
As the ferry pulls away
the city stands resolute
like men in suits and ties in the morning.
I know what you envy-- those erect spines,
the purpose, the promise
when you can’t stay awake through the day
and the day is long,
summer sprawled out in the queen-sized sky.
What’s etched in sand is as good as etched in ocean.
This is where you were sketched
and where you wait to be erased.