Anything can happen again
or never again. It’s a trick of living.
Making various imaginary teas from
ocean water, we’ve nearly mastered
the art of doing nothing, but moving
our bodies through time and space.
Her shoulders bounce along on a small pink bicycle.
We try not to measure our minutes, but mostly fail.
Look how low the pelican flies toward the surface
of the sea. Miracle dinosaur.
I’d know the sound of those sandaled feet anywhere.
And ask to hear them approaching always.