From bed we watch the night
salt-land and water lit by a tin moon.
Waves break five hundred metres out
and the woman at the store tells us
shes worried about tomorrow.
Im not worried. Tsunamis,
back-ache, debt and regret,
even poetry, its bird-like skeleton
buried in weed. But love, well,
my love – your face in my eye
and all that. Five hundred metres
out, all our good morrows are
surfacing. Its true. Never has
the world been more forgettable.