At the place where we lived

 

Even the sky gets tired.

The stitching of the cumulonimbus thins, 

threads give and open edges

soak through with river, lake, and creek.

 

We stand on your curb

working out how long and if, when 

ocean water washes

down our necks, the backs of our hands, 

 

over our lips, over our eyelashes.

Dry cracks in sidewalks gape

to gather up the sea until satisfied, 

until every puddle runs over with

undrinkable abundance,

 

and I remember the sky

has always been like this,

since I was a boy, since Maine,

always waiting, pregnant with years

 

and two rivers always run through 

my earth, brim to the bank

until mired and swamped, slaked

by floodplain, longing for estuary.