Then for a moment the light 
was the same—light of one 
particular hour of girlhood, one morning 
findable twice. Shoal, perhaps related 
to the Old English for skeleton: a sandbar 
that breaks the surface of water, causes 
a depth to ease. The ocean floor rises 
in a place singular, thinned, and we are permitted 
to see. When I learned the beautiful 
poet had died, I thought now she’ll never 
drink tea again. Which seemed 
the worst thing, though of course 
it wasn’t. I think I was trying 
to say it was hardest 
not to live. Returning, the light 
was birch-sifted, precise. Remember? We glimpsed 
the spine of something once hidden. 
We walked over stones toward the sea.