Full moon tides pull us tonight.  
Our twins, sent away on a rocket ship.

We’re of an age now
where the winters grow longer,
the storms darker, the rains harder,
the summers shorter.  

The academy is split—
the stoics, the skeptics,
the purists, the academics,
the existentialists—
what is and what isn’t.  

While we wait for the day
crows fall from the sky;
but there’s one thing you can count on,
we’ll be clutching one another
beneath the rubble.  

The fisherman’s wife sews his nets at night;
the whiskey sea, the gentle tide—
human driftwood floating home.  

Remember the train we road to Salem;
we game up our seats
so the old women could sleep,
and we felt good.