The Day Before

(for Raymond Carver:
25th May 1938 - 2nd Aug. 1988)

I remember that morning:
August 1st 1988
(someone's birthday -
I don't recall whose).
Watching the sunrise
from the dock - the lake
as still as death. Light mist
lifting on liquid amber.

We took the canoes out
to the centre, lashed them
stem to stem, floated there
like a star.

(I was young then - living
the irretrievable moment,
though earthed enough to
know it)

We ate bagels cold with
blueberry jam. Drank
cheap champagne from
paper cups. Talked like
we knew what we meant.
The world turned around us.

Slowly - too soon, it seemed -
we drifted back to shore, the
current wheeling us gently
anti-clockwise.

We all fell in at the dock
(it was inevitable) -
the water womb-warm on
our bodies.

Yes, I remember that morning
(who could forget?)
The hour after sunrise,
drunk and drenched,
goofing it back to camp,
singing like we'd known
each other forever.
In summer. In America.
When anything seemed possible.

When life was the next thing.