We scooched to the rightmost side
of the bedroom window in our first apartment
to peer beyond a brick building
and see six inches of sea rolling toward
a half foot of shore, the wingtip of a wheeling gull,
a foreboding snippet of sky before a storm,
or a smidgeon of an orange sunset, or a sliver of moon.
When we turned, we saw each other in the long
mirror hung on the closet door, you a foot taller
than me, our lithe bodies against those white walls,
the paint kicked in free by the landlord
when we signed the lease, and right next to us,
the double bed we called our sea where we dove
for each other, tumbled, tossed, and floated
in the days we thought we’d live forever.
