Watching Many Sunsets
No river was less running,
than sky-body left to
shine, miracle grey in mist,
looking out above the house to
stepladder escapes and whirring
box fans.
No less were we standing
making fingers slide, to believe
in something greater than flesh touch
the starring-back sense I got
from being still when things
looked paint-prepped.
No storm came from swirling
horizon, no clash breaking open
slippery skies, falling frozen
over the rocky silt, where
green pushed through, pushed on
in its way.
No night came on so quickly
as the ones which flickered
through the summer heat and
mourned our passing selves,
not in sadness, but in truth
that found
Us watching together.
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