Coast of perfect bays,
all night the harbor widens
between us; as we sleep
the continents change address.
I sail all day to you
then wake on the horizon
my arms full of loss,
my deck dark with water,
one big trap-door.
It hurts, racing off fast as light,
it hurts, only ever
arriving at goodbye.
But the moon of love
draws a true tide,
maybe the only thing
that really moves on Earth.
© 2020 Evan Fowler