Standing at the End of the World

toes, brandung, fluster,

the way he breathed so deeply next to me,

as if to hold his name for another time,

as if to summon all that he was before this here, the shore

of himself, and

let it all soar low over him

like a gull belly over water, like

breath over skin. Then,

walking under clouds coming out of

themselves and talking about

children and how we used to be older

than we are now.  The great rush of life

sometimes feels acute--- the burning moment

of eye contact, the lapping water folding onto itself

like milk, or blood,

shadows of the birds on our eyes; roll over,

easy one, the smell of wet trees is upon you,

the sleep near the sky you’ve been dreaming of, the

dreams there that will return you back to this

soft loam of twilight where airplane tails

scratch the surface of a sky so well polished by the

sun.  Throw rocks as far as you can

into the dark to see if something sparks; play

in the branches, call yourself the quiet one

who takes his shoes off at every entry.  Show

yourself this at your own door:

be your own ritual tonight, and

retire early to the prayer weaving itself

around the back of your neck where

all the little hairs are still standing up

from being at the end

of the world.