Turns out we were an incomplete
theory. Our drifting clouded by
blocked chimneys.

And then even our rift failed.
We were destined
never to become

an ocean.

We polished our exposed, surface
rocks for too long. Did we wag
our tails while dreaming

of each other in our sleep?
What a drag it was to realize
you would never get

how devastating it was
to learn about Jesus
in a Quonset hut

with no heat
or natural water basins
nearby to admire.

When I told you
I wanted to get lost
on the island again,

you replied you wanted
to get lost, too,
in the mystery

of a lone rose petal fallen
on a narrow corridor runner.
We slipped beneath

Lake Superior
and did not drown.
Slippery elm bark tea

still brewing inside
the cabin when we returned.
When we stopped struggling,

we knew. We traipsed
across the black volcanic
cliffs of the North Shore

with nothing left to say.
Our 1.1 billion-year-old scar
fresh as the moon’s silence.