after choosing

(April 2022. I do not really remember writing this in Miami Beach because I was crossed at like 4 am. I do know I was sitting in the exact same place I wrote the ‘Balcony’ poem. I had just bought a plane ticket home to Massachusetts to see my puppy, cost be damned, and I felt so relieved to have chosen after a couple agonizing days.)

after choosing

what is the weight of the paths
and what is the weight of the air now?
it weighs precisely here,
now,
as a direction—

scarcity is the dust
in my rear view mirror

the palm is gone
in the dark water welcoming

the water is rippling images
feeling infinite—

but what is the image of the water?