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for John Fogelman
There are some things we just don't talk about--
Not even in the morning, when we're waking,
When your calloused fingers tentatively walk
The slope of my waist:
How love's a rust-worn boat,
Abandoned at the dock--and who could doubt
Waves lick their teeth, eyeing its hull? We're taking
Our wreckage as a promise, so we don't talk.
We wet the tired oars, tide drawing us out.
We understand there's nothing to be said.
Both of us know the dangers of this sea,
Warned by the tide-worn driftwood of our pasts--.
But we've already strayed from the harbor. We thread
A slow wake though the water--then silently,
We start to row, and will for as long as this lasts.
