In the Book

In the book when the boy nearly drownedhis legs wrapped in weeds or maybe rope

I was gripped and followed his footstepsalong the dune road to the heavy churchdoor that eased open at the touch of one hand

breathing cool air out against his facehis sodden trousers wrapping his calveswet cuffs breaded white with sand

and everyone turned to look and sawnothing but a dark door haloed with lightpushed opened by a breeze, no boy at all—

the scene was so real time slippedinto its spiraled shell and pulled itsfeelers behind the hinged clasp

and I stood to pour myself a glassof something strong enough to cutthrough the feeling when I opened

those crisp pages againto find the boy still strugglingto kick himself free

of that grasping kelpthen heave himselfonto the packed sand

his fingers carvingtrails as he sputteredand coughed

and though stunnedwas soon fine.

I riffled numblyforward then backthen forwardagain and slowly

searched the entirebook but the sceneat the church was gone.