Whirl, I say to the wind, to the red brick wall, to the cobbled street, to nothing and no one in particular. This is the thread I’ll tie around my wrist today. Curlicue of an ear, shape of an open palm waiting to cup the notes that blow from a tuba’s lip, that croon from a fruit’s half-eaten skin. My child stirs kedgeree with a fork, fluffing the yellow rice, tapping the sides of the bowl. If only it were as easy to festoon the days with curry, with bits of egg and smoky fish. I’d dangle iridescent earrings to waylay dreams. Across the world, a friend gets up to take another shower. It’s a sweltering night in summer: an ice cube has a half-life of fizzle. Meanwhile, here, the ground is glazed with water. The downpour past, the beaches are clean as swept porches. Here come the waves, scrolling their bluegreen pages. The carriage rolls back at each interval: return, return, return.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.