there is a place on the map
where everything left
a time when the cracked-rib twinge
simply stopped.

(you carry yourself carefully for a while
because breathing could bring it back
everyone knows this.)

i had driven west by the lakes
walked on Erie
last night's flask jammed in my pocket
a pebble saved
to mark the moment

christmas eve cry:
a body letting go of something
the mind still held
i drove back east
and i went to church
tried confronting it;
cried again

landing on the beach in Delaware
worn out like the Pilgrims
dusk on the Atlantic,
fog solid enough to be felt

no visible light but the end
of my illegal cigarette
i strained my eyes
but there were no shapes on the shore
no ships where i knew the water was
i could not see my own boots

i went back to the rental house
changed my sweater,
washed my face
still waiting for it to hit again

there were still days. there are still days.
but there at the 6 month mark
the backpack fell off in the sand
and it was too dark to pick it up again