Fire Island

Because the I
becomes a we
here—a summer
to be shared,
a voice to be heard
above the herd
of swans
bobbing like buoys
in the ferry’s wake
as they patrol
the water’s edge,
their ripples fine,
as delicate
as your hand
in mine, ordinary
and transparent as glass—
where summer
is a door
to this place
where we
is a given
and I
am taken.


You’ll find me oxidized and open wide, yet rust resistant