Maybe we are only meant to make it to twenty-two

Or twenty, or today

watching this cascading,

these smooth stones


and singing: do you remember

the tree by the river

when we were seventeen.


To keep this stirring,

to hold this flowing and these

limbs stretching up and up

in glass jars on the sill

catching morning and basking

until we submerge again.


I swam with a lobsterman

once, and the next morning

we watched a Luna moth die

slowly against the granite.

He said: Well, what isn’t ephemeral

and I said: You spend

too much time at sea

to ask me that.


Then, him:

Don’t try to tell me that even the ocean,

yawning and heavy as night,

doesn’t recall pushing past aspen roots

as a puttering stream

and wishing to stay.