And so tomorrow invades,lonely andoften. Becomeswithdrawal of surf:diffracted light, coughsof surf. We're getting betterat taking orders,at putting the worldsecond. It's a muddy fieldfull of wonder,bringing me backan imaginedlast line. A movingstrangeness, a trainoff the tracks andhowling, comically small.I wonder whatyour take isin terms of thisastonishment,how it endures andrenews itself.My heartpounds and poundslike anythingstarting out.What I see’swhat is spoken,the pleasureenclosed withineach grim and bustlingrecord: every pain,every fissure, every secretabout a secret placed rightbeneath its objectof enjoyment.It's like we justsort of follow each other.The earlylight feels itselfpondered,the bite and sweetgravity ofbeing real becomesa body in liquidexpansion.The season'shand reaches downinto whateverpart of the mind feelsincredulous, constrainsthe scope of whatmight plausiblycome to pass.It just goeson and on.We varyeach other to the limitof variety, we lieopen on eachother's tablesand recordthe awakening ofideas. The dark waterwe dance in front of,the lights thereinthat seem to die.Today there's nothingI can do, nothingthat can be donevery soonexcept to floatthrough your bodylike water,to where we go,where neither the deadnor the dyingcome up, nor plungesharply pointeddown the sky.____Michael Joseph Walsh is a PhD candidate in Literature and Creative Writing at the University of Denver and co-editor for APARTMENT Poetry. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in DREGINALD, DIAGRAM, Fence, Likestarlings, jubilat, The Volta, and elsewhere.