iv. autobiography

a mint in my mouth and

i am dreaming again.

the seagulls have come

back to skim the white-

tipped waves of summer,

a vastness of life for eyes

clearer than mine. the

freedom, the pain. i am

living in the autobiography

of a person who owns

a parisian balcony by

the sea and listens to the

seagulls crying and smiles

down at morning joggers

on the promenade. i

still think of monroe way

sometimes. ramshackle

fence and cascading

laburnum and splintering

walls, and imagine the

absurdity! i still think

those are mine—

mine! not a fugitive

fragment of a better

person’s autobiography.

a year and seventy-three

days, and the mint is gone

too, and i am still dreaming.

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