Lunch outside. My knees burning under my black pants. My pits sweating, my skin blooming red from the sun. My tulips have yet to open up in the garden. Tightly curled in their green pillows. They are open every where else. I ate a beautiful, simple meal: chili, the last of our garlic, salty bread, unsweetened apple sauce. Not one sip of water. And I settle in at a wrought-iron table, next to a man-made waterfall, but water falling nonetheless. And I read poetry and tried to find my next poem or tried to let my next poem find me. I’m in the backpull of the tides, pulling all the filament. I’ll have to wait to know what I’ve collected – if anything.
My skin is still warming. I could have lost time. Thrown the numbers on the ground, watched them scramble out of sync.
But I’m back now and had one piece of mail in my inbox. Reject. At least they were quick – took about a month. Or maybe that’s a bad thing. Or maybe it doesn’t mean anything at all.
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