Missive

A simple mind will think divinity

bares itself in accidents and losses. 

Outside, the people in their vessels move 

over the moving water—I am not 

understanding—the patterns in the froth 

leave an impression that fades. Images 

bore, don’t stir how they used to. Why does one 

go seek consolation? Why bend to view 

the woodgrain, the bird folded in the road, 

crimson, still blinking? I have yet to write 

my incarnation but know it will come 

at night or early morning, between states

of wakefulness and sleep. I'll see the face 

of the woman I could be: unmarried, 

without a child, and always with a ring 

of air around her where light enhances

its qualities—a little world—with space

enough for others to reside. I’ll be 

shaken from all sleep and left with nothing 

but cold morning and my will, fresh as ice.