Yeah, I'm sitting in a writing workshop in Santa Barbara,
having written myself into a tight corner, no right words,
nowhere left to go, and of course, the weight of the iconic date.
All I can think of is how far we've come, how we've regressed,
repeating the names of lost cities: Damascus, Aleppo, Palmyra.
That boy in the surf, what we've lost. Irreparable.
stations of the mind, no longer functional.
The aftermath of refugees in the Budapest train station.
To arrive, to leave again with nowhere to go.
Shoes, toys, blankets. Entire lives left behind.
I cannot fathom the loss, crusades, Isis, this anniversary.
We are more haunted by images of small children.
The small boy rocked in the cradle of the surf
Incunabula. The sea comforted them.
They returned to the amniotic brine, breathed it in.
Tiny starfish hands fluttering in that last dance in the surf
Summer closing in on autumn with a vengeance
The winter yet to come, nowhere left to go.
With only a passport of the mind.
Found in a Pages document
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