Each day will be the soft
susurrations of silk
against a window ledge.
All your cakes will rise bloom-like
over their cake pans and you’ll own
all the proper lawn care products. But
one day traveling through the landscape
of your birth, you’ll cup air
in your palm out the car window,
waving to where you left your childhood,
and under the colored glass
that has become your life, you’ll feel
unease—like smoke
from an unseen cigar. But that’s
all. You’ll keep driving. The days
will swallow you, and the many days
afterwards, like coins dropped
into a fountain, with the ease of wishing.
