Sunday Evening

The resounding silence of us,

hanging up.

After we have spent the last six hours

floating through all of eternity,

waving “Hello, there!” to pterodactyls and

the Appalachians and

hammerheads and

the Empire State Building and

robots and

teleportation devices

we are still experiencing

the sun and the moon

three hours apart.

What stretches longer?
The distance of miles or the distance of hours?

For us, it may be miles:

The warmth of your palm pressed against my face

is the span between a small ant

and its mate on the other side of a 

basketball court.

For us, it may be hours:

Your laughter jostling mine on a park bench

is a half-empty coffee mug

left on the kitchen counter

from two mornings before.

Whether it is miles, or hours,

I do not know,

but I do know the feeling

of climbing toward

the moment we meet again

five days from now

in an over-polished airport terminal

amid the buzzing of overhead P.A. systems and

men waving goodbye to the ones they love and

women waving goodbye to the ones they love

we will be two Pacific salmon,

swimming to the upper reaches of river,

only to give, and give, and give,

and one day — some day,

die.