Impossible thought — that they will die.
You sit on the edge of the bluff watching boats
inching their way under the sky.
To fall now would be willful.
If you sat here
a long time into the future, it would be
where they are seated now, tilted,
already looking down, avoiding the fear
in your eyes looking back at them.
Maybe there is an underwater hand
seductive as the come-hither coral
that waves at them. Maybe the landscape
wants crying though you refuse to cry.
Across the sea the seagulls gather.
It looks like all of the birds
of the one small world are here, the blue
sea surrounding a huge white flutter
like the mouth of some god at a feeding.
What dreaminess of detail can love us
at the place of sorrow.