It is not the sand or receding tide,
heavy with salt, that I am thinking of,
my hands rubbing my eyes
as if they were some genie’s lamp,
my wishes with me all along.
I am thinking of rain at the end winter—
what a comfort it is
to find hope in the hopeless—
like repetition, like ice.
I am thinking of the cardinal
who tries to fly through that just-cleaned window,
how good it must feel to finally forget,
resting your head on the cool cement.
I am thinking of Cassandra,
whose story’s so tragic, it could only have come
from a guilty heart.
I am thinking of silence, the silence I hear
when your name is a question,
your absence somehow making this room
quieter than ever before.