there are points further east-

the geographic overhang holds little romance;

it is always earlier somewhere out of sight,

the sun touching further places first and by

the time it opens here the day is already ancient,

hours only important where they are born,

far from this local moment.

beach-grass hissed whispers out the wind over

from connecticut and it is easy to forget here,

among the shattered bones of frightened millionaires

that the sea, too, ends against other places, other

rocks whitened by iberian suns, and moons over

the bulge of coastline.

we sit on the dock and the water laps brown-green

beneath our swinging feet. the sun is going down

behind us and there are people waiting there,

millions stacked up against the distance we back to,

forget about, straining on ahead forward for when

time will shift its weight in our direction