The Shape of the Heart

I called the children slobs.  I was not gentle with them.
     We took a noontime sail in the park.  Comme loin que le ceour peut voir des arbres.
     A train glided along the shoreline.  There were many tanks of oil that reminded me of submarines. I supposed America drank as much gas as water.
     Pacific pointed out a black triangle of crows.
     We imagined we were sailing on a storm-thrown sea.  The grass dove in on itself.  We cut through a valley of ocean.
     We stood on large smooth stones
     And spread our wings
     And flew.
     Strangers spread a blanket over a picnic table and then spread their lunch.  Pacific lived on the stones.  The sun shone and made a warm wind.  A woman in a white coat with black buttons paced aimlessly across the field.  The sunlight flixed off the windshields of the cars going down the hill.  The front of the car parked next to ours was smashed in.
     I took a different road and saw a beautiful sculpture of a black bear and many beautiful working-class homes.  At the grocery store we were stuck behind someone who waited five minutes for a spot to open.  A black woman with beautifully curled hair and a beautifully long nose walked in front of our car.
     Pacific wrote on his hand with a red pen.
     Pacific took a shower today.  He likes the shower now.  The shower sounds like fire.
     Kirsten and I did not get along this morning.  I am unhelpful.  We stopped talking for an hour.
     It has little to do with what you say. Transcending nuance and habit.  It is the energy in the hands.  Her hand and your hand clasped that makes the shape of the heart.