Aware of my un-

balance, the

necessity of my toes,

I rock on the still Jetty’s basalt,

tilt on clumsy pockmarks

dimpled and raised in the sand,

precipitate words

because I’ve become

unacquainted with heavy air.

When he isn’t watching,

I take pictures of him. Face to sky,

pink clouds, the right angle.

Kneeling, salt catches

and holds light, grip broken

if the brine rises or when

gravity pulls into its own—

He says, “No camera could capture

this. I wish I could share

what I’m seeing.”

(What were we so afraid to lose?)

A sandbar into the lake,



Reflections bright

as if our doubles walk toe

to toe beneath us.

Holy cupped bowls of salt.

Spilled flames orange and white.

($91.20 for film processing,

red stripe leaking light)

What’s left:

Dry high docks,

gulls, black rocks.

At a distance,

cut off by the thin

waterline horizon,

they wear one tall shadow