9. Where Turtles Lay Their Eggs

David is writing prose poems.

The time somehow flees, as we imagine, on dutiful wings, shadows crossing the window sparingly, probably clouds but also the possibility of an ending, even the hoped-for ending, a sinking down as through black water. These were childhood dreams and here they are again, but they arrive in daylight now. Night is for the sleeping dead, morning a resurrection, waking in a new body, each day’s body reinvented out of mystical threads. I am locked into this one room, the one room of my life no different, these walls closer and less colorful. Staring at the wall reduces it to waves, the subtle waves of quanta, perhaps, where there is more space than you might imagine for imagining. There is a dirt road somewhere in Costa Rica that leads back into the jungle–and, look, coati!–away from the desired beach, the huge Pacific, and no matter how hard I wish, it is impossible to retrace my steps. See them in the sand, the imprint of toes, the uncertainty of passage where the sea turtles lay their eggs.

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