At Brighton Beach I watched a young red-headed girl in a denim jacket sit on the railing and jump down a great height to the sand, only a brief hesitation before the leap and landed perfectly in a squat. Far above her the clouds looked like the ones in the miniature landscapes in the background of old Flemish portraits. The right side of me was warm from the sun.
The last hour of the morning I had slept with the window open and the fan off so the pale pink sky leaked in. With this heat it’s dream season now day and night, I sigh every time I wake up.
I spent all day yesterday going on my back — laying on my black leather couch after short bursts of work, then on the beach ignoring company and rolling onto my side as if to sleep, later at night on my floor reading Mysterious Mozart, the plastic wrapped book hovering above me while my bones stuck to the hard wood.
In the morning I walk long empty sidewalks lined with trees weighed down by dew, large houses with columns and balconies and a flame burning out front, a porch made of dark wood and long grass in the yard. An old apartment building with metal entry arches like ivy painted white. Quiet quiet deserted as if it’s always late afternoon. Sound of a small ball bouncing.
I had a dream I was being stabbed in the back, and I kept waking up throughout the morning to groan and itch my head.
Now it’s dark. Silhouette of a figure standing on the white balcony, seen by someone half hiding behind the trunk of a tree. Light curtains blowing behind them.
