Each morning fresh road stretches
before me. I never make good time.
All day long it falls behind me
in bent and broken pieces of light.
Small duties advance incrementally -
a mile for milk, another for the bank,
two for the doctor - a million little miles
click past with a slight miscalculation in
trajectory: a quarter rolls beneath the sofa
untracked; a hand slips quietly from a hand.
A mile for the cold blanket, another one
for the sleepless pillow, two for the empty bed.
We went to the ocean. I played in the water,
wrestled the pulling tide just to stay
upright. I looked back toward the beach,
and found our umbrella nowhere.