Camp Prodigal Sun

In our sleeping bags rainstorms slept
beside us. You were the inside spoon

when a thunderclap passed through us
like a lie made true by the game

of repeating it. Flag-weary and trumpet-
ready, Taps shined above the lily pads

of the ponds our dreams skipped us
across. Dixie tapped its nails on window-

sills as near to us as eyelids. Sleep,
the visor our sky sloped over, we saw

tattered in a bramble thicket, blown off
during the obstacle course of finding it.

We rose when the sun woke us
like a snore, restored by the body’s

space for its own brokenness.
One morning, a sandbar. You stashed

wet Petoskey stones in a chest made
too heavy to haul. This was the canoe

in which you learned to almost drown.
Breath was rabid water in a timid river,

and you were the night you spent
brushing riverbanks from your hair.