Who exactly is available to tell us the story of our minds?
If I dream of an estuary called ‘Ephemeral Waters,’ an optimum of spectral love
anyone might allude to their misgivings. Or it’s interpersonal, the tide finds
its way round the three islands, flowing away from negative emotions, some remove
their shoes at the door, others talk of auras, or the portals of youth, the mark
of the sickle. One sojourner steps out of the shadows, shaken
she’s like a wave he thinks, the breast of water that bears the singing barque
of Andalusia. I can’t imagine why this change, how little time it’s taken
to turn away from the road and down along the river flats, our cheeks
damp with commitment, a fever of circumstance. The holidays will come
and we’ll have to leave, pack everything away, ready for the long weeks
of return and indecision, no law to our wandering, no pattern to our doom.
Is it really driven by theory?  It’s so cruelly lacking, how can it be proved?
Perhaps now the place to try living is indirection, where we’re all loved.