While I’m looking toward the pole,
You slump to your side of the ocean.
I’ll call out the hours,
And you can inventory the flotsam and jetsam,
Again.
I no longer care to make brine.
Perhaps I’ll write songs for whales.
As I dance a Borealis under the moon,
Near the equator nothing is happening.
Soon, I will forget these waters connect,
The stars will make me lose count.
Perhaps you will still be searching the triangle –
For evidence of us.