At the place where we lived
Even the sky gets tired.
The stitching of the cumulonimbus thins,
threads give and open edges
soak through with river, lake, and creek.
We stand on your curb
working out how long and if, when
ocean water washes
down our necks, the backs of our hands,
over our lips, over our eyelashes.
Dry cracks in sidewalks gape
to gather up the sea until satisfied,
until every puddle runs over with
and I remember the sky
has always been like this,
since I was a boy, since Maine,
always waiting, pregnant with years
and two rivers always run through
my earth, brim to the bank
until mired and swamped, slaked
by floodplain, longing for estuary.