My Father's Belt

after Linda Gregg

My father's belt, my belt frays slowly even as it separates along a seam of strain. Come down from your tree. Already my patience burnt for fuel, and I'm leaving at 300 mph. In rain we laughed and listened, giddy to share a storm and wriggling as after a bath and the perfect contentment of finding anything new we look in, but the windows are shrouded by the canopy. Inscrutable greeting in morse code from a million lantern operators leapt from windy gesture releasing pieces of light by an infinite design Almost free again to, what, feel? Despond? A tunnel to cream orange sky, probably somewhere over Jersey, but never mind that.