Steven Stewart

For Alexandra


I am sorry.  I saw the two of us alive, imprinted
on the wandering sentences.  There you were on the beach,
old and aloof, strictly afraid of death, drawing trees
beside the blurred footprints.  You were shaping time
with the empty possibility of imagining, with rocks,
palindromes, and seagulls.  Near the house’s warped surface,
the amusing scales of the bedroom descended in a song
marked by story, crucibles, obsolete quests, and spies
at colorful intervals.  We sang that our truth
was in our coincidences, but the footprints proved us
indifferently friendly.  The day’s surprise ending
was a motionless shoe, your hands folded
in contemplation.  Twilight came and the seagulls floated
skyward, lost, headless above the cresting waves,
careful but eager to ascend, avoiding the mutilated horizon,
and the shore.