There were so many things I wanted
to know. What it means, exactly,
to breathe another in. How it feels
to drown. We all
Had questions for her, admonitions,
pleas. We came with salvation,
the crooked blade
our father sent. We had traversed
The shadows of slow whales
to reach her, but like all lovers,
painting: The Sea Maidens by Evelyn de Morgan
The Volvo stops a few feet shy
of the crosswalk, the stop line,
the cracked door in the pavement.
Perpendicular to this drive, from the lawn
of the still-dark People's Bank, the ducks
head off to the marsh.
A young female stretches. She yawns, practically
pajama-clad in the entirety of her waking.
Her sister sits on all the good grass,
and she will not be moved.
A nip from somebody's mother
just as the light turns green,
and the brown birds pack up their night.
photograph by John Hanam