May 17

I walk differently with new shoes into a field full of dandelions at night. I walk into this field, shiver, announce my presence to this field. I am sheathed in cold air. Cold air sheathes me. The field introduces the sky for questioning. Is it a bowl turned upside down? Are you drunk? Has my voice changed? A doe limps out of the woods. The doe, that’s your symbol! It moves through the dandelions with shadows stuck to it/ you move through the dandelions with shadows stuck to you/ something like that. It’s stupid, anyway. You’re back but you’re not glad: What is the symbol for this? Maybe it’s on the radio. An airplane guides itself with a white light. You will fly tomorrow. All my good ideas seem pretty bad now. I think about the airplane’s destination. Wherever it’s going, I totally agree. (Later I find out that the airplane made an emergency landing on my high school’s football field, and looking back, yeah, I saw it coming).

I have this image of your house: It is sunset, and orange sunlight streams through a set of sliding glass doors, splashes on your kitchen table which is made of blond wood, travels across the floor, crawls up the pantry door which stands partially open. I think there’s a grocery list or something, tacked to the door. On the floor, next to the door, is a dog’s water dish. You’re in the backyard. I can see you through the sliding glass doors. It looks like you’re waiting for something to be thrown to you.

The sky is still there, waiting for me to do something. I decide to make a wish. I wish curling up into a ball and crying was common practice, like going to the bathroom, and equally as effective. All my old ideas seem pretty dumb now, though I take some comfort in the fact that they looked good at the time.