A Letter Home

In time lapse, sun sculls along horizons—
rising, setting, pulling deeper currents.
Drifting sand finds no traction, but you try
not to see it that way. Instead, routine
assembles each day beside each other,
another shade darker or lighter, not quite
the same. Tell me, how do you pass the time?
When the waves in front of me tilt and slide,
I do as they say, I look for some landmark.
But what besides us will do—a place
I’m expected, a question waiting? I drift
with days, they drift with me. I’m only sure
about us. And even us—though we seem
still—time drags into open water.