Against the Baltic Sea
ink-lit from underneath
on that bright evening, we
watched our dispersing breath
and walked over clean stones
to where they kept their dead
kings in a stash of bones
ornate with gilded lead,
carved oak and filigree:
I thought that I could see
in there one polished wreath
made out of wood, that shone
back light from overhead
into the well-kept vault,
but I heard our living steps
that echoed to a halt
no sooner come than gone
diminish and retreat
away out through the gaps
between the sea and town
like some repeating phrase:
I could hear myself repeat
it’s not my fault, or this
isn’t happening, as though
saying would make it so.