Most days, all I do is watch the sky;
how planes land from the roof
of my tree house in Ventura,
ears ringing from the feeling
that something I could have prevented
is about to happen or has already happened.

Sometimes
it happens this way:
standing in a vast, dim room
we had negotiated as my personal space,
and all my things—
a torn blue dandelion blanket
still kept at the foot of the bed,
boxes of greeting cards sent to me
from the same place every week
I have yet to visit,

and news-print paper dream catchers —
are shifted through breezes observing
autumn turn back to summer.

And I am too bankrupt to blue sky,
afraid of nothing—
including watching the news on CNN,
including a call from my father,
including the thought that I could do something
to make him stop loving me,
which is true.