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.