Zoloft

The good fog

sweeps in,

rolling between

ribs

the other side

of the bay

looking back.

You practice speech

before the glass,

walk the room

back

and forth

fingers prowl long

last-night-in-the-city hair

practicing

before the glass.

Outside the window

a silver fish

flies

kite tail

a three-yard streamer

dripping

and hitting dune tops

rising again

shining

in the sun.

Later, coming out

of it

you sense

bone on skin

like lightning,

steel flashing blood

on cement.

A plane

flies over the city

leaving guts

and rooftops

and below

a silver fish

tail tangled in

a fire escape,

trapped behind

the glass.