Nothing Promised

You drag the boat across the tallgrass, shake out 
the black snakes that made a provisional home under the bow 
through the length of winter. The rope undone 
for the first time in months, it slews behind you 
through dirt, then shallow water, a thin trail 
that follows you deeper into the afternoon, submits to the pull 
of you, or perhaps the pull of the other shore. So sure you are 
in your solitude, and I am startled to sit here, witness it. 
How smooth is your sailing away, this measured 
but steady drifting under pink, penumbral light. When we first met
you portioned your stories, or they came brash, a light tower’s 
unpredictable beam. Resolving to muteness the year your father 
could no longer hear you, then woodwork, then a decade
of travel. Tulum. The Mont Blanc where the five-foot two French guide 
hauled you out of a crevasse. The Norwegian girl you met at a bar 
in Cambodia who followed you back, wanting 
to show you the ring on her labia. Her Janis Joplin tattoo. I follow you now 
with my late summer eyes. Why do I love watching you like that, 
cruising away from me? As if you are teaching me something 
about love and distance. Two red-tailed hawks surrender 
their shadows to the thicket of spruces. You stare up, 
then past your left shoulder. I think, at me. The wind tugs at every 
boat in our world. A hushed push and pull, a measure of faith 
travels the distance between us. Buoyant as day, thin as light.