I got caught on fishing line—
invisible, in the night.
But now we’re sitting. When we get up
our butts will be damp. “If my butt is damp
then your butt is damp,” I’ll say.
But now we’re sitting, and staring
up and out.
Down the strand are our friends. Raucous.
Down the strand is a light.
The light isn’t our friends. The light is a fisherman,
out here for peace, perhaps.
We aren’t disturbing the peace, you and I.
We’re making some.
I notice the way the water sucks in light for meters
before it begins to reflect the stars.
You notice other things, I assume. You don’t say them.
You do say you’re thinking of Maryland. And I wonder,
Does Massachusetts look like this?
even though I’ve been to Massachusetts.
And I close my eyes and fill up with wind.
I’m walking down an Irish strand,
I’m by a water that whips.
But I am mostly with you. This peace wouldn’t be the same
without you. Wouldn’t be right.
I lean my head on your shoulder, and wonder,
Am I ruining things?
Would you rather I wouldn’t?
You are so cautious with me.
On the way back, we’ll both get stuck
in the fishing line
again.
And we’ll help each other untangle ourselves
in the night.
Not all of the knots will be visible.
I wonder if there’s any we undid
without knowing.
