I watched the gold paint on the ceiling.
the minutes sweating out from the air,
the Metro bus passing every 15 minutes or so. or at least it seemed like it.
i could feel the wetness of the Houston day, seeping into (out of) the hardwood floors.
my toes gripped the ground
my mind gripped you.
Lie back daughter, let your head
be tipped back in the cup of my hand.
Gently, and I will hold you. Spread
your arms wide, lie out on the stream
and look high at the gulls. A dead-
man’s float is face down. You will dive
and swim soon enough where this tidewater
ebbs to the sea. Daughter, believe
me, when you tire on the long thrash
to your island, lie up, and survive.
As you float now, where I held you
and let go, remember when fear
cramps your heart what I told you:
lie gently and wide to the light-year
stars, lie back, and the sea will hold you.