the morning sun does not rise
back between the marshes on the bay
where colors remain dividing lines of gravity
where the horizon never seems at hand

on land, at a distance,
i can clearly see your vision
features all your own
the blue of your eyes, the curve of your brow

but it's july and we are at a distance.
nothing unsurmountable
not of lengths saved for olympians
but i fear the phenomenon of a mirage