The schooner of separation, with its cargo of words is nearly at vanishing point. Waves break over driftwood beached here at my moonlit feet. No stars, not even the hiss of nebulae falling away from our planet - with its distant cities, you in one, I in another - in the whitewashed sky. All those June days of green heat & evenings we spent watching thunderstorms to the Great American Songbook-

Were those deeps we reached, Adrienne, trompe-l'oeils rather than moments of a lived summer, I wonder?