The sun today is young
as a cool breeze. Perfect blue’s
the surface of a black sea.
Still, your body may only be
the watery cremation you swim,
flower in a vase
on the table, in the shadow
of the entranceway.
You thought of slipping inside, too,
for what, just now, you can’t say.
Maybe this should tell you something
about the breeze, the way it throws
its body into the screen door,
again and again.