The feeling of the wind rushing under fingernails
trying to force it back as a hand sails from car windows.
The flutter in the water as fingers would move through.
The sharp prick of the stray woody thorn of an oar.
Somehow it will cramp up and wake, tingle as if the sleep wasn't permanent.
Reaching out surely it will grasp, but this grip is too much for me.
In one's head, they said, but a bullet to the chest or
a fall from the sky jars no less in a dream or in life.
If only a whale to chase, my dear Captain Ahab, to take the focus off,
This phantom pain may be the least to me; the grief may be the most.