Imperfect Science of the Internal Seasonal Surf

In its thickness,
she hears Hokusai’s rogue
wave crash over
a ghost ship gunwale.

A world carved
into a block of wood
in reverse
does not disturb her sleep.

She remembers nothing

when she awakes.
Mops her damp forehead,
breasts, ankles. Sits up

to place bare feet
into a cold water puddle
on the concrete floor.

The window has changed
its shape. Now round
and encased in brass, it frames a view

that tells her
it’s spring. Nothing else
matters. She knows she can float.

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