Weighing the Difference

Anna interprets my dreams as the fear of botching a chance at

heaven. I would like to believe in the plurals of things,

the hour shored up against a bridge, its bright underbelly furring

against my cheekbones. Everything here is all shutter and no

latch. We’re a bunch of wackos who cry before our birthdays

so the morning startles in its fullness. Sappho, from the Greek,

could haul up a bucket of spring water from that reeking

sewer of her life. Seeing that my life is not so much sewer as

the lake we swim in, with its fair share of algae and silt

blooms, the water should be clean enough, if not to drink, then

to wash away the day’s worth of dirt.