He is reading in bed, his wife asleep.
High winds are tearing up the sky.
In the dark, before he sleeps,
unseen, he weeps. He has no one
to be brave for. A tree,
in another part of the city,
uproots, destroys a house,
but the couple inside escapes
without physical injury. Their story
news on the radio next morning
as he drives through town to work
reeling in bits of last night’s dream:
he’s alone in a boat, grounded
on the back of a turtle streaked
with blood. His father killed it,
expects him to devour its flesh.
Mark me like the tulip with thine own
streaks, the Sufi mystic pleads.
The boat becomes a star
looking down on him reading in bed.
His wife believes he is fearless.