When I return, it is this time to waves. They are not shallow, or blue, or green, but deep and gray, so deep that the bottom will never be inevitable. There is no recycled surf here, just white, clear air. We’re running along the beach, dipping fingers into tide pools, surfing on illusory waves. We as in I, I am running towards forgetfulness, towards assignments due never. Then comes the foam, it floats and catches on grass, grass that blows in only one direction. Foam is the color of ripping paper, of eluding overdue. I can’t see anything other than expansive waves, there is no beach, it just turns from water to rock to grass, as if storms exist somewhere other than here and blow here on their way over.
Somewhere in there, comes regret; I regret windows, I don’t regret disappearing.