Why should you sit with Pain in a too-small room? Take your sadness for a motorboat jaunt off the isle of Capri. Give it frothing wake against a sea blue-green as Listerine, an Italian captain in ripped jeans who calls out Beautiful and Emerald over the engine’s whine. When something alights in sequined seaspray, see its wings’ orange unfurl— translucent, impossible— suspended like blown glass. Let yourself gasp and point despite no one else looking. When the captain cuts the engine, saying, Yes, fish flying, blink at the sky where it had been, the spot in the ocean where it dove back, how it converted the sky into mere wallpaper and your eye into a diminutive vase for the showiest flower.