It occurred to me this morning, that it is we, the living, who haunt
the places where our loved ones are lost. —SDP, text message
I sat with you among driftwood wrists
and wrought, stone-clutching bull kelp roots.
The morning unsunned by a clotted mist,
that slicked the rock and wadded the bay mute.
We watched the logs rocked as if by a hand,
keeping meter of indifferent lullaby.
Looked out, at the mainland. To the dark band
floating way offshore, a twitching skein
of … scoters? Brants? We couldn’t tell.
But only watched the quivering knot
thicken improbably, then unravel itself,
an engine, thousand-stroke and monoglot.
A wake swelled just then, the boat long passed.
And all the fists rose up still holding fast.
