It Takes Practice Not To Die - Elizabeth Bartlett

Together we talk of parting
and are drawn out from the shore
across a running sea
that was not there before.

Cautiously we lay our bridge
in air, island to mainland,
and wonder will it reach
beyond the tide or stand.

Already our eyes are widened
by the miles that split us here
as we turn at the bend
and pause. Dark reefs appear.

Together we mark the distance
between words and waves, the wind
swinging our cables. Chance
moves forward—we, behind.

Your bed
they said
so shall you lie on it

But I found rocks
were kinder than clocks
and did not cry for it