Breakfast in bed, window open,
the long arm of the pier disappearing
into thick cordgrass across McCalleys
Creek, the water so low, anchor posts
showing how they touch earth, bare now,
barnacles etched in memory all along their
bodies, no secrets, the heave of the ocean
inconsequential, every rivulet in a glimmer,
knowing the way home—

We could crack a window, taste the air
still left from the night, inverted, notes
of smoke and salt, let it slip in, no labor
added to our breathing, easy as the sea
breeze that comes later, how the long
shower teasing live oaks, threads through
the bark, wraps any name called out
into the dark earth, knowing when to give,
knowing when to take—