A washboard sky with cirrus ribbing the horizon,
and he walks through the shallows
so he leaves no trace of footprints. For him,
the past is non-existent: wind and sand --
no clear messages.
He has entrusted it to her.
She must remember why he bought pecan turtles
for his mother's birthday and that he was
always a president or team captain.
His mind has erased his mother's lover,
the screaming, hair-pulling fights,
or how his teen-age sister showered on Sundays
with their father.
Instead of memories, he keeps notes.
What he needs to do and what ought to change.
Present tense. Or future. He thinks
if he holds time in open palms, she will take it,
submerge it, magnify everything
yet filter it through yellowed light,
as he keeps his eyes on the horizon,
preferring her version of the receding tide.
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