We're staying at the guest house. The day,
opening on a stretch of sand,
waves us over like the hand of someone we love.
Our shoes, piled on a heap on the porch,
become temporary nests for seagulls
who seem untroubled after having caught
the last afternoon shadow. You have been
talking about how things used to be; about
the time you walked away from me, thinking
is it possible not to see
what never happened?
Now I know you need to be shown: the beach
those birds, this day
I leave you in a poem.