Leaves fall from trees like sand and wind,
the cluster of weeds
under your doorstep.
He’s in the therapy box again. Inside, a bright orange couch. Her brother looks small in the mass, his bangs like commas on his forehead, blue eyes, dreams.
And he says, “Scarecrows hung along the bay are deformed with water.”
Stares at the two-way. Adds, “Opening
their distended bellies means finding old fish, a child’s game.”
He says nothing more for hours.
And then — a development.
You terrify me.
You hear water. Trees continue to contain God over the years. You think of sand.