Take one cattywampus pier, going gray,
and several small boats thudding
against the bumper tires: now imagine
the slosh, the sinewy groan of hemp
fed through and around
the boat cleats. Maybe wind uncovers
a pang of silt. Even blind, we could
clamber aboard. They say
mooring lines should float . . .
Did they? Hard to recall.
But fore and aft, it falls to us now
to cast off. Recoil the ropes. And,
God as our anchor and bench mate,
facing the deeps, we pledge
memories will be fairly borne. Only,
look beyond each leaky hull
and the ghosting corrosion that clouds
the finish. Beyond this shore,
out where the light cascades
sheer and true, perhaps
someone who loved us taught us
to row. What more can be asked
of the long ago—save this: grace,
under the surface, still buoyant.