I will tell you. Maybe 
You’re leaning in the open 
Doorway of some Irish bar, 
Watching a single tug 
Edge a little clumsily into its 
Slip, in a Baltimore twilight; 
Maybe we’re driving the bluffs 
Of New Mexico one Sunday morning, 
Or maybe the coffee’s just 
Starting to boil 
In the bare kitchen of your rickety 
House by the Pacific, as every 
Circular pulse of the lighthouse 
Slices the dawn fog. Maybe, 
At midnight, high on the catwalk 
Of the abandoned cannery, we’ll 
Watch the bent 
Ghost drag his skiff onto the shore. 
Turning its keel to face the partial 
Moon. Maybe it’s this drifting in time 
You’ll no longer imagine, or the body 
Of my voice that you hate. Tell me— 
Because you remember a woman calling 
Out in our sleep? Because nothing’s 
Left, if 
We’re alone? Tell me. I will tell you.