I is to they
as river is to barge
as convert to picket line
sinker to steamer.
The sun
belongs to I
once, for an instant.
The window belongs
to you, leaning
on the afternoon.
They are to you
as the suffocating dis-
appointment of the mall
is to the magic rustle
of the word "come."
Turn left toward
the mountain.
Go straight until
you see the boat
in the driveway.
A little warmer, a little
stickier, a little more
like spring.
