Going without is the key
to returning. Water
smacks the glass and fills,
the friction when
I rub my sleeve up my arm.
Of course, birds. Myself swallowing,
and the refreshing ah after.
Sinking into new sand. The cup
put down on the table. Breathing.
Still imagining the yellow
moth’s wings lightly
on air. Burning. The scrape
of leaving. Taking off
my shoes. Rising from the chair
and sitting down again.