Multnomah

After seven years
we met for beers on a
spruce deck behind
the Station Inn, western
Oregon. Your home
was in the rocks then,
beneath sequoias, sea
strained moss, a perch
of teak and novels. Green
eyes, still green eyes. At
eight we stood with a sea
before us, you told me how
you felt. Sea lions slipped
from stacks into surf. I put
my hand on your jeans, tried
to hold you in my coat. You
moved away, held my fingers
in your fist, told me again
of the bus that departs
every morning at nine.