Each week is a year in the world in which I swim with waves of ice and buoys nowhere, and yet the sun is hot and I am free to float; I do not sink. And the fish beneath my feet are friendly but do not talk. I’ve known I’ve been floating here for some long time, but my eyes are not always open. Sometimes, they are squeezed tight with the expected pain of a lonely Thursday afternoon in June where nothing is happening except for scribbles on a lonely web. No one will read this text but I cannot close my leery mouth to shut the verbs from flowing. It all just goes. The floating is my curse, but often then another floats by, a fellow cursed, troubled mind. And we lock hands tight, and sometimes kiss, but the ocean is the master and not my desires. So away she floats like driftwood with lonely eyes. We’ve been here before, and we’ll be here again. We’ll know this patch of unloving water. Again.