Driving. Late. Far from home.
Supposed to be someplace else.

Two kids, not experiencing youth as a joyride
The way that old people remember it and sell it
And begrudge it
But as a long hallway of locked doors.

I tell her
I think our dreams are secrets
Like words you say once and say wrong and get made fun of
For mispronouncing
So you set them aside in favor of roundabout acceptable synonyms.

She says all dreams are secrets
Until you do something about them.

What if this is a dream? What would you do?

We pull over to steal an irresponsible lucid moment
Walking along the Atlantic.
Time’s Arrow
Suspended in midflight.

Nobody’s here.
Too early. Too cold.
Not even enough footprints for a postcard in a Christian bookstore.

We see a singular rag and bone beachcomber.
Grey beard and green sweatshirt
White rolled up Prufrock pants
And a cap folded in half in his back pocket
Like Springsteen’s on the cover of Born in the U.S.A.

Something about the warmth, the depth
Of his dark eyes makes us think he’s seen us somewhere before
Makes us welcome
Makes him officiant.

We take off our shoes like Moses
And leave them with our plans
In the sand
And step into the sea.

The horizon calls. Pulls.
Curved like space
Curved like the way that promises end up keeping themselves
Curved like love
That knows and cannot lose its own.

We dive deep. Full immersion.
A vocabulary of absolution
Like a native tongue forgotten
In an attempt to assimilate into a foreign land
Where they only speak separation.

We remember now.
We remember dreams
Can’t be crushed
Only compressed
And pressure
Makes heat
Makes fire
Makes life.

Let them press.
Let the diamond density of our dreams compress down into a single infinity
And explode out in a Big Bang beginning
And carry us back to the shore
Gasping and laughing
Hand in hand
At the reckless inevitable forever of it all.

There are lots of footprints now.
We make out the impressions of our grandchildren’s grandchildren
And ten thousand more
Like laugh lines on the face
Of the loving Earth.