He has such great armor
that token of guilt inside
reaching for the empty bottle
She keeps filling his vessel
with ideas for boys
who believe in oar's treasure
In the quarter-light of purpose
he catches a beam
and recognizes the kind of motion
that sails by disarmed
Her hair
His eyes
The way wind looks at fallers
When he disembarks
the stiffness from his mistakes
propels her to turn
into a different water
the kind of drowning
that breathes beyond reach
that distant ache of land
They will not touch again
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