I’m looking toward the pole, so
You slump to your side of the ocean
I’ll call out the hours.
You can inventory the flotsam and jetsam
But I no longer care to make brine,
So I’ll make songs for whales.
Now, somewhere, near the equator
Nothing is happening.
Soon I will forget these waters connect,
And the stars will make me lose count.
Perhaps you will still be searching the triangle
For evidence of us.