From the Fishouse

When you are sailing and the wind on your brow
makes your outside feel like a blue heart,
don’t forget that it’s dark inside your pocket
and that the pocket watch that is not there
lies under a glass window in downtown Houston
where a Mexican boy thinks of his grandfather,
points, asks how much it costs. Don’t forget
he breakdances in the evening at the Y
and the girl in the corner who just watches
and says “Miguel, you’re not using your shoulder”
is also watching you as you suddenly stand
feeling brittle as the cliffs, and so small
a hawk could drag you off. But the girl is happy
to feel the wind on your arm and know there is no end
to the commas in the blue scripture,
though she thinks more often of whether
her parents will be watching television
or fighting when she gets home that night
and of whether or not she is pretty.