Out of Context

Spiraling

out of context,

she arrives at dusk

just before the blue breaks

gray. The waves bend around

the pier. And I hear her

questioning driftwood, or

counting sand crabs

when the tide

reverts low.

We only

have so much time

to see the arrival

before the departure, our

forms rush like ghost brigades

wavering slightly in the

winter wind. Which way,

which way will we shift

under the far off

lights of february.