I wonder where the light comes from, not the peek from the ceiling,
that could be any orgasm, but the light from beneath
that shines as it chills us and chokes. Light from our lantern
of surrender. There is no safety. No where to rest in this oak
we have cut into timbers, knotted into rope, slathered with resin.
No land on which to lay a soft mattress and share our sleep.
The gulls know. They’ve followed us into or out of darkness.
Swore their allegiance or promised, at least, to report on our demise.
But the light, coming up too bright to be a reflection. Ocean
which divided us. Ocean of profession, of gender, of choice
and culture. Oceans of our pride and insecurities, of all things.
We float above it in manmade bodies. Buoyant, terrified.
Living to die. Was it not a port where we met, made land,
refueled? How we love. Briefly, in passing. As a storm passes.
Or as passes a brightening day. Soon always out to sea.