I’m pressing t-shirts: black, worn to grey,
smoothing suspense till your voice-call. My eyes
drift into a leaden middle-distance.

The Philips Super-Glide sputters steam
until a signal comes, crackling. Listen,
air stills: Can you hear it? My headset fills

with rushing spume and wash of wave-roll,
I’m fishing. Complete darkness, six pm.
I see what you see: pewter, slate, steel,

feel the line pull, willing to reel in, while
our eyes probe dye-fast cotton, bat-blind sea;
then curses fly as your tackle tangles.

You hang up. I strain to summon fish, crabs,
from the depths of jet fabric. A smooth iron mist
dampens the air. Tides run, night deepens

on your side of the world. As you pack up
rod and bucket, I greet the west-bound sunlight:
a sacrament, ready blessed by your eyes.