The sea lived with an assumed name that stands for real too.
Verifiable commonness, the vowels a way of hiding.
That and the fridge booming out its noise every hour
while a corporation filled in the hello my name is sticker.
If only we would let ourselves be dominated as things do
by some immense storm we would become strong too
and not need names he said to a blue robe thrown
lank in the dryer, now leaving drifts of blue lint indoors.
I’ve spent my life referring to maps, trying to split myself, be
present to win an entire Tri-State. The car held its mirror
so we’d stop multitasking, and concentrate on a direction.
The robe said whatever and started to split across a particular
seam, riding round in that heat drum. It was big enough
I could wear it naked to sleep and dream into a pizzeria
dazed, look straight at the man behind the counter, and what,
he says what size the salad, and his eyes ask are you really here—
this countryside the sun shone on to make the lettuce,
what hauled it here, the road spelling a word that makes no sense.
© Cynthia Arrieu-King