stands in a bubble in the backyard.
The bubble is large, and so only looks
like an oily wall.
His whole life
behind this one thin wall,
and he presses his hand through.
The wall feels like a small waterfall on his wrist.
It is a Wednesday. Now his arm is on
the other side. Now his chest and his head.
The air smells of pine. The backdoor
is painted yellow.
And he stands there
trying to understand
why he hadn't noticed that before.