somewhere around day nine
it all falls apart,
one of those days where you can’t
face the world with straight
eyes and there’s nothing
for it but to drive right at the sun, right
as it sets, like some
old cowboy in some old movie
off to some damn
the night holds
its own in borrowed starlight til
you can reach the river
and the morning sun
coming down through the first
of the new leaves.
trace footprints in wet sand.
tell yourself he loves you.
fish the poem from the water.
waves run against the shore below the bridge, longing
to be the ocean. herring make their upstream leap, and
birds fish languidly from the rocks: geese, ducks, long-
legged Great Blues and a single, bleach-white crane. i
walk the beach barefoot, breathing the air sweet with
new green, watch him perch serenely among the highest
squirrel-eared branches, think this must be what it is
to be in love in spring-time, and alone.