Sarah White

I meet you still though never
fully formed like
a statue only a partially drawn
stream with one arm extended
to the bottom of a pool  
the poem you and I
were working on when
everything went under water
drawings from a night
of little sleep fading
in the morning

What to do on land—
pretend a bottle  
wends between the blues
of the harbor with a letter
I threw in
for you if you can ever
find the time

A stream
children swim in seems
to a grandmother
like tears and to a painter
like mirrors.