Poem, 8/28

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?