At the Mouth of the Big Au Sauble River

This is no great river by any stretch!
No, it dies a slow and easy death
in the sandy shoals of Lake Michigan.

You can wade across the river mouth
in fifteen, maybe twenty steps, the water
is clear and the bottom smooth scalloped sand,

it feels as luscious as an oyster or
the pink skin of a conch, sacred in its
shallows, then heaved up unceremonious

on a sandbar as it pushes deeper
into our souls. A lone fisherman casts
into the shadows, for what?, good luck?,

there's no fish lurking here, only nervous
gulls murmuring at the water's edge
and waterlogged driftwood, and as the sun

sets in its honeyed lavenders and mango
pomegranates and sweet cherries, sure enough
here come the beachcombers in their sombreros

and serapes and pedal pushers,
laughing, nuzzling, kissing and holding hands.
The water is warm and indifferent, pagan,

a quiet rapture. This is, after all,
the ordinary, our love dying off.
We came here not to renew but to be

reborn.