the pickpocket

In my dreams, it is always summer
and the boy in those dreams is always picking pockets. He
never tells me why. My mother, she
does not know this boy
but he looks a lot like her. I am waiting for him to step
up to me and say On my watch, you're never
going to die. And I dread that day but in my dreams,
everything is still in place so I try not to be too afraid. The dreams
aren't always about the boy. Some of
them are about how the wind
makes the red kite fly. The kite is a miracle
making zigzag patterns on a sky
that is overcast with sadness.
I think I've never seen anything lovelier than that,
except maybe for
the boy's hands, how small and
insignificant they look. I'm sorry,
I could've sworn that the dreams were not all
about him but they were.
Strangely, he moves me. The kite never has, honestly. Like
many things, it acts as a disinterested constant,
floating around and
doing nothing spectacular. But the boy was fast
and careful, always
making someone's load less heavy. In today's dream,
I see him lifting the sun out of someone's
beach bag. For a moment, he
makes believe he is stealing from God.
But I know he is not; I know he knows the truth for
God is not here. He is in someone
else's summer dream,
picking someone else's pockets with
bright, small hands.