Sexton, "Night. Fire"

When we looked up after hours of staring

at a crimp in a log, the shooting blue

flames, puffs of smoke,

the tide that was right here had gone

way out, so the waves were now strokes of gray

in the distance, and the dark night closed in

on us, everywhere at once.

Everywhere at once the sky was touchable,

for of course it was right here, over us,

as well as way out over the smaller and smaller waves,

coming forward but still going out.

Coming forward but still going out, leaving

us to watch this crashing in and in

yet each time receding, the way our conversation

happened along those same lines.

Along those lines we managed a few

untouchable subjects, the way we imagine

we can touch a star or the moon on a night like this

but know we really can't. We imagine we see

everything more clearly, but that doesn't work

with the past. Which is what we were dealing with—

in the way families try to deal with this sort of thing.

Families deal with this sort of thing

poorly, so far as I can tell, and so when the bon-

fire loosened its hold and we stretched our mysteries out

over the sand, the way we'd never do over a meal

in one or the other's house, we heard

the lips of one wave touch another as if each spoke for us.

And words came slowly, or didn't come at all

Slowly, or sometimes not at all, seemed better

than never. And never seemed to be coming

forward like the sky, which is always so close

and receding at the same time.

Elaine Sexton