i.

As the edges of their thoughts collided, as they always did, the rush of shared authors and ideas would rise up like waves pulled by multiple moons toward a center, and come crashing down again: something would pull one of them away, and both would scatter, slightly burning from the encounter.

ii.

I should not be the one to whom you write your letters because I will only leave them unanswered. I should not be the one to whom you entrust your beaches full of soft shells and sand, your golden castles, because I’ll only let the sun shine on them, and the wind and rain blow on them. I can do nothing other than this; it is my nature. I will ask the trees to spare you but the gods of the land do not listen anymore to my prayers. I have become too cumbersome for them, too demanding in my wish to be left alone. It’s possible I have outlived them, or they fled long ago on the backs of some birds that once passed through the area. They may have retreated to the center of the smallest black pebbles that line the ocean walk or have dispersed in the rippled sand formed daily by the mouths of the sea. I have picked up the stones and held them in my hands, and I have lain on the rippled bed of the ocean where the tide nudges the sand. I have only heard the echoes of the waves as in the seashell: saying nothing, somnambulant and gray, unpiercing like a cloudy summer sky, unremitting like the sea, and they have told me nothing.

iii.

Wind blows and a window springs open
A sunset with a color orange she had
never seen before but her favorite is
the band of blue that mixes imperceptibly
with the green, which moves above the
yellow of a striated sunset on the sea so
pale it is only recognizable as blue by the
colors that border it and leave it blue by
what they lack Below the deep orange a fire
from within dissipates as the porcelain blue
of a night encroaches from above, a night cap
on a blazing tangerine I recalled a dream I had
in the cruel spring of two years ago where my
body was swept along in the terrible force with
which I hurled a baby off a cliff so we that we were
falling together face to face through the air
toward an abyss whose bottom we could not see
She asked me what my favorite color was in nature
that is not to wear or to look at but in nature and
I could not answer I could only think of the pale
white slip of your chest and how it beckoned in
the streetlight and I was comforted by the thought
that flight, in addition to escape, evasion, staircase,
is many things passing through the air at the same time