He drinks beer until the sun pulls
its heavy head up out of the still lake,
a drunken pink arc under the dissolving stars.
This first sunrise in a decade.
Unpeeled from his wrist, the watch sinks
into the charcoal water, turns over
in hesitant descent; the mooned face
blinks up in downward sift to rocks and sand.
Unmourned.
On the deck, legs pointed lakeward
arms spread backward, he becomes a marker
for shadows: light measuring
the warm progression of morning.
As the moments shift soundlessly
over his skin, a full flex of breath
pushes yesterday down his throat:
it tastes of something sweeter than time.
barbara fletcher 