Tell me of the whisper of stones, of morning-breath freezing about your birch-trunks.
It was cold in August, as fingers detaching from hands played at candor. And you said it was “fine” by the standard of sea-care. Adrift? no, but drifting
toward a certainly.
Before the end of day we watched the sky pulse gradient without light. The lack of color alarming: it and you and me together, under the hood of some ornamental star
and 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. Me and you and it were lost, becoming birch-song and stone-gaze.