Stockholm

I think I broke the fabric of reality that day
By memorizing every crack between the pavement bricks
With unexpected accuracy and direction
For a twelve-year-old, in a Vermeer light.

It did not look like what in fact it was:
A northern city shivering its feathered limbs
In the habitual cold. A microscopic definition
Set in like a firm cloud and clasped with great forceps

And pinched and picked and ripped and wrung
This vision from my eyes and into saline liquid preserve.
The weight of blood lay heavy in the pit of my stomach.
This is an ugly recital of the breathstealing day.

It lies now in memory on a rusted silver platter —
A glacier before the iceboat brig of time,
Bobbing and licking at its hypothermic nose
And sinking transiently alike the morning moon.

Lean over the side, the back bare to the wind,
And plunge into the Baltic Sea with a dull glimmer
To let the waters take you across the vastness of your mind
And softly, blindly nudge you back ashore.