WHITNEY RICKETTS

I wanted to text you my brightening outlook in hopes 
you’d forget all the troubles we’d run into in the gridded city 
of Wednesday where the automatic windows of my rental car 
wouldn’t roll up in a downpour and my debit card demagnetized 
and I showed up so late so often and disheveled we missed 
every night of the opera, but I hoped you might forgive all that 
and fall in love anyway with the contemporary sense of me, 
the Sunday, Sunday me now appearing, a bleached crane 
strutting in shallow marsh water, an echo in reverse 
gradual and deafening, the speck in your radiograph,
furious whitecap on your sudden horizon, dazzle 
of a satellite fireballing out of some improbable orbit.

JASWINDER BOLINA