He is
leaving and he remembers the pink eyeliner blue morning hue of the sky that
morning opening the way the body of the earth opens, the way her body
opens, with a slight yawn in a
variegated eruption of color. The morning he embarked on the psychological
puberty, the morning he tastes the spring of his youth, the morning his eyes
open into the slanted peach sun seemingly pulling itself out into the
topographical palms of the Midwest, dashes of sunlight like morning glitter
gracing the earth in a wink of sunlight—a confetti smattering of birds
orchestrating oratorios overhead and the silhouette of my mother, rousing me,
telling me that, after all this time, it is simply time to leave.