In my dreams you are alive
and you are crying,
half-sick with the thrill that comes
from fracturing your fingers
holding on to fracturing things.

(putting a masking tape X across a windowpane
won’t really keep the glass from shattering)

Your disappointments, laid end-to-end,
would stretch from here
to the Atlantic,
the kinder of our oceans,
which only wants the bodies and not the land.

Along every boardwalk, nervous
hotel managers and restaurateurs
pull their aluminum shutters closed.

It’s hurricane season.
The sky is a harpsichord canvas;
I am in retrograde.