Tell me of the whisper of stones, your breath in the morning freezing about the birches.
He was cold in August, fingers detaching from hands and you said he was “fine” by the standard of sea-worthy care. Adrift? no, but drifting, certainly.
Before the end of the day we watched the sky become gradient without light. The lack of color was alarming. He and you and me together, under the hood of some ornamental star we were indistinguishable.
Under refuse. Above sea-salt. There are places in this world filled with joy and we cannot find them.
Roundabout. Reversal. Two songs intertwined; four gaits of varying length; your eyes and my mouth so close. He and she and it were lost, you became birch-song and stone-gaze.