HE WINKS WHEN HE sees me; he rubs his bristled face against my hand. Next he is driving away. Implacable wind snakes the grasses, storming. Upset sky! I am standing under it, but he is not. How is it then he can rub his bristled face against my hand? Against my hand and the inside of my wrist, my arm.
My mother, alive in the waked world, is much farther away.