Awakened by the alarm-radio all seems as other yesterdays and the ebb of tide, your absence, the grains of sand beneath the foam, slowly, revealed. This now of morning asks for a response and I have none.
In the realm of nothingness there are no boundaries. Circumferences do not exist, there is no middle. Horizons are broad, never reached. The stillness frightens yet calmness abides. Unheard—harmonic sounds linger, echo-like, sensed as an undertow in an ocean's depth —a Siren's call. In the realm of nothingness there are no boundaries, It is a birthing place.
Some things he will see again and again. From car windows, rows of corn, their strobe a flipbook in which nothing much ever happens, and stands of white birches, fistfuls of lightning dropped, then turned wooden.
And other things, not again and again, but at least again. An adolescent rolling a barbell home from a garage sale. A dead snake the color of toothpaste and mermaids. A sassafras that laps sun, and, under it, dozens of gray mittens fuddling applause.
Not, though, the sky from the kitchen sink, where we bathe him. And not the parishioner who patted his ribs, birdcage that breathes, and she all wonderment despite the century that shows in her rouge. And in her eyes, blue and weeping as sores weep.