It is not night any longer.
We are fishing and we are not talking.
There are rings everywhere, spools of time unraveling.
Here is the crown, here is the scepter.
We are quietly fishing together.
We are letting the canoe drift.
The next sentence only knows the previous one.
Mirrors, knitted baby caps, frequent apologies.
Time adjusts itself to our decisions.
The night passes and the gray afternoon stands waiting.
The canoe drifts, past blueberry bushes, past the camper's beach.
Your letters are always late.
You are always late.
When I am angry I resemble royalty.
You crack a beer and I wait uneasily.
But I do, too.
It was a rowboat, and this is fiction.
What is passing, what is gathering?
My friends are waiting on the shore but I can't say who they are talking to.