He sits on the floor of the
house he grew up in, talking on
the phone to his girl in the
city, telling her when he’ll be back,
that he wants to see her, that
he needs to. Gusts of seed-stuff
rush the window. He wakes, perplexed the
dream has not gone on. Maybe it
does, but this is where it leaves
him. This early morning light. Where it
goes on it is rebuilding his heart.
Copyright © Michael O’Brien
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.