Written in the margin of a book.

4:08 AM:

I know that moment on the dock
was a window for you.
That net sillouhete
on the purple sky,
bells ringing in the harbor,
and your life looming
westward over the marsh.

I was born in that cage,
but you sought it out.
Somehow you managed
not to inherit their mistakes
and I envy your purpose.

These are things we never say.
The words are always
trapped on that muddy creek
where we are still casting out,
bringing in
and letting go.