WALKING TO MARTHA'S VINEYARD
And the ocean smells like lilacs in late August-how is that
(silver) as remembered light.
Do you have any children?
No, lucky for them.
Bad things happen when you get hands, dolphin.
Can you tell us a little bit about your upbringing?
There is no down or up in space or in the womb.
If they'd stabbed me to death on the day I was born, it would have been an act of mercy.
Like the light in the last room, the windowless room at the end, must look out on. Gold-tinged, blue vapor trail breaking up now like the white line you see after driving all day, when your eyes close;
vapor trail breaking up now between huge clouds resembling a kind of Mt. Rushmore of your parents faces.
And these untravelled windy back roads here-cotton leaves blowing past me, in the long blue horizontal light-
if I am on an island, how is it they go on forever.
This sky line an infinite tenderness, I have caught glimpses of that, often, so often, and never yet have I described it,
I can't, somehow, I never will.
How is it that I didn't spend my whole life being happy, loving other human beings' faces.
And wave after wave, the ocean smells like lilacs in late August.