I was alone in the midnight field.
I was off in the distance, watching.
Through the trees, the little campfire
made a nest of light.
I like that you showed me that—
and your friends,
who swung around it.
I peeled back an ear of corn for you.
Beneath the silk, the crowded mouth,
which I like.
And, weeks later, in Fitter's Bar—
I like how the light misted your hair.
Remember my little beagle
sliding around on the hardwoods?
Her skin was loose,
like a costume, I like that.
And the seagulls in the harbor?
I ate fried squid by the rail. Remember?
I like the scene—
I wish I could have joined you.
I'm a little embarrassed
you saw me riding that jet ski.
It made a wind
only for you. That's why I like it.
I showed you Nag's Head from the lighthouse.
I was there once. I like
to imagine our eyes locked into the air's
same sockets. To see it from inside you.
And the railroad bridge behind my childhood—
Your last trip home—
which, though I know you were sad,
Will you ever stop watching?
You'd have to throw me away.
And when I die?
Each day a little piece of you ascends.
Already you're in the archive—
this heaven resting on the living.