In the picture

there’s a child
that you cannot see.

It can be a boy
or a girl,
whichever you choose,

of that age where the limbs
grow long and lean

and urgent with a need
for running.

This child hides
behind the banyan tree,

sneaking from Sunday school,
commandments set in stone.

In a moment,
the very moment
that you look away,

this child will dart
across the page,
fly to the sea,

preferring the gods of wind
and dunes and wild things,

the gods of the fish that slip
from the nets, free.