There is no color left in this old world
but gray, still no ice in Keweenaw Bay.
A drunken man might wade in
to swim from Assinins to Pequaming
Thinking to walk out sober on the other side
into the warm blanket of your unfolded arms
But bodies sink to the bottom and stay there
because it’s too cold for the bacteria
That would float a log or man to the surface.
This is what we think about on difficult crossings.
Better to strip naked, nothing to weigh us down.
We’ll lie with the sturgeon like prow and figurehead
So close that the fishermen will pull us both
from the same hole after winter’s ice closes in.