Graduating to Wet Stones

Graduating To Wet Stones I will be twenty-six in July. But you, barely twenty-one, will still be young for another year or two. We sit and watch water stroking sand a restless petting: Small stones tossed from their ocean boudoir ride foam, nestle in irregular piles, lie still and washed. I recall the last time you were here and I was not. No summer thrills, but plenty of shock; they politely call it therapy. I could almost smell the brine on the cardboard scenery you'd sent me. And when they said I might never share the Pacific with you again I, being a shade more stubborn than weak, pushed back the death dreams. I can tell you what they will never know: the mind can cling to a single possibility, one liquid image lifting and carrying you through a season of typhoon chemistry. The cures, the drugs, every book-smart psychiatrists plan to straighten crooked psyches, none make a moment so clear, as these wet, simple stones freeing themselves.

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