A Bay of Storms

Bit by bit she inches away from us.
We're tethered to home’s acre —
squealing brakes for her anchor, but
she’s wild, that girl, always swimming
out too far, aiming for a red sunrise.

She’ll be the death of us, I say, that
wildness of hers, but you remind me
that she was conceived in the wildness
of a snow-blown night in the stables,
us floundering on a horse blanket.

Can’t disagree, but that girl is our
apocalypse waiting, swimming
the universe like a blue planet.
And we pull at that anchor, steady
ourselves for more tectonic play.

Life, she says, has a sell-by-date,
and so she lives for a perfect sky.