Bahamas, 1962
The red truck idles,
dripping an unknown fluid into its shadow.
The sky is full of the sea,
of clouds that left the salt of their estate
behind in the rich water.
At night we feel the anchor drag, and the whole island
drift toward the Southern Cross.
But the morning mail boat finds the dock, and dark heads
bend over fluttering paper
as the inquisitive breeze reads over a dozen shoulders.
Love is everywhere, like the sand. Whatever is old
is still to be loved,
whatever rusts, whatever falls behind on the sandy road,
the oldest hen, the pencil stub,
is still to be cared for. At noon the mail boat, low in the water,
restarts its engines:
our last words must be weightless.