I walked out before you ever thought
to. There was a star. There is
a stairwell. Even the way it happened
against my will and with it, both.
The long nervous water around
the boat and you standing watch
in the tower. Somehow I am
still afloat. There is disquiet.
There is a shore I wish
to be broken on. Clean
is the word. Broken clean.
Salt dried in the corners of my eyes.
A baby is born. He is not
a metaphor but a broken
Hallelujah. Is the hull the boat
or something more or less?
Where are you moored?
A creature walks. A creature crawls.
A creature reaches across
the table and takes my
hand. I can see the door.
Its frame an open eye
waiting for me to go through
it. You are telling me about
the boat, asking me when
I think she'll be ready.
The sun is setting. A clatter
in the back room, the baby
crying, a shore washed
up on itself with no
one to find her, no one
who is even looking,
no one singing Hallelujah.
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