After my grandfather passed away, I drove with George to a park by the ocean. Not sad exactly, just a faint remorse. I hardly knew my him.

She reads a different translation from what’s on the screen. At the desk, I try to piece together what the Russian was saying, what he was trying to say to us. And the whole while the projector is shaking

If I could only paint you a picture: // My neon orange rain coat and black shoes on the yellow grass // The white car in the lot, the many cars in the many lots on the straight road // The hills where the cows feed, black beasts on the yellow grass

Orange spray paint on the sidewalk: OB OB OB OB notes for construction

We stop to watch the view. // Small movement // Grasshopper on the rock Animates the void

We drove to the lighthouse that was off on the island // so they put on their wetsuits // swam the whole way // went the whole way there

The headlights open a clearing ahead like a page of a book from childhood

On the train, things seen once: Egret, statue of the marsh border Symbol of me in the truss

We spend much of the afternoon drawing pictures in our notebooks and moving bare feet through the grass. It’s wet on our feet. The grass is wet on the earth, and it’s cold outside.

It rained the whole time. We had gone far to get out and away, to get in the house // just as the sun set over Massachusetts.

The freighter drifted past and we nearly missed it, as we’d missed the sunset. But we saw the light still shone on the containers, snug in the orange moment.