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After

Maggie Anderson 
	At the edge of the ocean, I walk into clouds thick as clotted
cream.  I pass right through them.  The ankle of my left foot emerges from a
buffed white opacity I could drench with significance.  Or not.  Only clouds,
just ocean.  One observer in a red coat on the sand is me.

	Into the dark forest under the may apples, green moss softens
the duff.  Among so many trees, one circle of sunlight where something 
unimaginable has occurred.  Don’t think or try to guess.  Something
never even considered in this world.

	On foot on the open road—no set destination.  The heft of the
 yellow pack shifts on my shoulders.  Gone in search of, I am queasy with
persistent grief, as if I am still holding something very heavy in have already
put down.
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