the twilight is as green as greenstone
and there’s a cold front coming.
the flattened sea pushes against stones like
sighing at a dropped catch.
soft beds and hard pillows
and sunken beds and pillows gone
and floorboards twice trod, thrice!
way past midnight outside room 19
and rain a handful of pebbles ‘gainst the window.
to the lake
snow blown down.
the steepness continues
below the surface on which
a hundred happy yachts
beat into the
round ev’ry bend another vista —
and we’re arguing
pushing the old dissatisfactions around
like stubborn ice on the windscreen.
it’s as temporary
as your warm arms
fleeting as the sunlit peaks
gone round ev’ry bend.