River

The mind. How we wake up sometimes right when we go to sleep. I mean roving over vast rolling meadows in the sunshine, meanwhile crashed out warm in a little house, but up slowly one green hill and down the other side, on and on, so green everywhere the sun hard on me, bright the sky oh blue the blue the green, blue and green and me right there right between those colors—blue and green like two big hands grasping my ribcage, lifting me up, beloved child in this big world. Check it. The body all grown up for real, toasty warm, eyes closed under down, with, indeed an arm thrown over mmmm girlfriend, every muscle relaxed, the hair fetchingly scattered and nobody will ever see it—we stand sometimes and watch, just watch, the sleeping children we love, we love them so, it pulls the heart like taffy doesn’t it to see her crashed out like that, all warm and tiny, limbs and hair everywhich. So. There I am, invisible to myself, lovable there inside tightshut eyelids and meanwhile awestruck: one foot in front of the other the sky so blue I could walk for years and maybe I will this green green rolling out as if I’ll live forever the blue crackling above as if I’ve never not been right here. It must be seventy-seven degrees, right, birds singing, the air silky on my bare arms like sex itself. So. Way off in the distance there a dark clump of trees crouching together and I think—even though I am asleep in the dark and it is as a matter of fact coldhard raining on the roof over my head—but there standing in the thick grass among, I’ll just say it, daisies, I take a big breath, the sun on my skin, I squint at that distant klatsch of trees, and I say to myself, I say, River.

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