All of Us

I know nothing about this place, but for the wind’s sandy knowledge of ‘yes,’ of ‘and,’ and of ‘no,’ the thickening clouds which shuffle noisily from room to room until they are the puffy wounds on our plaster ceilings, back home. This is mid-afternoon, and the desert exodus of bathers begins,
except for the young Hispanic boy playing with a drift net, capturing my attention, and the birds’.
Yesterday, I watched from the balcony as a couple married on the beach, near where I am sitting now and where the boy is playing, and as the storm approached the lovers kissed, and, of course, all of us applauded, though whether it was to celebrate love, or for the time still left to escape the weather, I’m unqualified to say. I think I will stay here a while, as they did, and tease the growling dog of the storm, have it lick my face, leap excitedly over me with a childish hope that the watery net will capture me so that it unleashes me. After years of loving, I know nothing about love, so it comes again and again, untrained after all this time, asking not to call it to me, as if a creature all of us became but as the storm approached it became a thing we could only keep to ourselves. Now, I want to try to read the differences between the fin of the shark in the distance or in that same distance the fin of the dolphin. I want to wait for the lightening to kiss The Gulf and for the gulls to applaud the mystery, in order to forgive my queer and expert ignorance.

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