the jerky going into my mouth

and my body flipping over

to lie on my stomach,

the book

slips

from my hands,

bounces once

on the far side of the rock,

then down

directly

into the sudden

depth of the pond.

I watch it drop

into the water,

the yellowed pages

curling over each other,

trying to swim up,

keep it from drowning.

The letters

come off the pages,

float up,

disappear

at the surface

Ketosi …

Heavy Cre … carb …

Ba c n an Eg … imag i e … los ng … we g t …

I think about

going after it.

Fish it out,

dry it off,

start again.

But I don’t.

I leave it there.

A few feet underwater.

The doctor still smiling.

Thanks, I say,

but I’ve got this.

Its yellow cover

fading in its watery

resting place.

The Way Back

When we see the ocean,

we run along the open path

beneath the bright-blue sky.

Hikers take heavy steps up,

families, little boys and girls,

and all kinds of dogs.

Yesterday we were alone.

Today the trails are filled with people,

each climbing into something different.

I feel lighter,

like the change on the outside of my body

and the change on the inside have finally met.

At the base of the trail,

past the parking lot,

we see the simple blue-green picture of a bus,

the number 61, that will take us back.

End of Summer

It feels good to sit,

rock back and forth

in bus rhythm

along Shoreline Highway.

Jorge draws quietly in his sketchbook

as I tell him more about the game

me and Pick are making.

We feel the heaviness of late August,

and as we near the turn into Bolinas,

I understand that this might be our last week.

I have to go to school in Mill Valley.

I tell him about my school,

and what I think it might be like

now that so much has changed.

He looks at me. Smiles.

I hope you don’t change too much.

He draws a hand coming

out of the center of the lake,

and in the hand is a long silver sword.

The 61 bus circles into town.

It’s his stop.

Jorge puts his hand on my shoulder,

tears out the picture of the lake,

hands it to me. Bye, he says.

Later, I say, and he heads off the bus.

The bus drives,

along the lagoon,

past Seal Island,

where pups surface

near the shore,

getting braver,

down past the houses,

to the last stop in the town.

The Return

I get off the bus,

my pack heavy,

my shoes untied.

I see myself in the window

of a truck as I walk by.

The window makes me look

twice my width,

my legs thick,

my face doubled,

covered in dirt.

At the nursery,

the wide gate is open.

I can see lights

strung up, and some colorful flags.

Zamfir is playing,

the pan flute wailing out of the gate.