At the end of Provincetown,
the end of the Cape, I and my lover
begin another long vacation.
Seven years have passed.
An adolescent has motorized his skateboard
with a friction engine, as might be found in a toy.
As he is rolling down the hill towards us,
I ask myself, Is he storing, or releasing?
The viscosity of our history: At what point
does perpetual motion belie its own progress?