Hanging clocks on the clotheslines again, a man wonders what his wife wanted to tell him that one night. What is closed must be opened even if nothing lurks inside. The heavy Sunday newspaper clunks, unmoored pens clink, in the stiff worn briefcase. The man stops his afternoon walk to look out to her, the lapping sea, reaching her curling hand up and over the concrete shore. She wants the land wild again and barren no more.
Comments