How good to be lost with you, soaked in sunset,
two gulls threading the grey air, wood smoke and tugboat,
swaths of water burdened to a sheen. Maybe time
is merely a construct of our making, but I believe
in hunger, in being fed. In taking a lifetime
watching crimson spill over foothills, dousing
Puget Sound. I wonder what it’s like to ripen without
fear, to be a near perfect body. I’ve heard it said
hot metal dropped in water forms a true sphere, held
in tension’s embrace. How nice to know when death lugs
at my life force, spreads my energy out into
so many billions of stars – such sweet amnesia! –
I will still be here with you, two gulls gathering the dark,
stitching closer, two tugboats pressing home.
