Remembering Five Years

Remembering Five Years

The purple walls of a bedroom

shared in a California morning

we visited after college

trying to mend

the past, we were disappointed

with the ending.

You still go there and

hear the coyotes howling.


The broad dock water

clanking under a skinny deck

swaying and reaching toward the middle

a lagoon in New Jersey

where we spent summers together

when we were younger.


It still clanks,

beneath a broken belly

and the sounds of this water

still rock me, a plastic boat floating

determined in a drying river stream.


Five years wasn’t enough

but we had cut the flowers from the yard

anyway, they had begun to wilt, orange fading

the water becoming loose into the air

living somewhere else.


I never tire of imagining the past,

thinking it a bit less cracked and small

as it probably is.


You still call years later

I think of you when I visit the Atlantic

or the Pacific, and I imagine

the maids, tossing me soft rocks

as if it were you speaking,

finding me the ocean.

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