Jeff Burt

You look down from the second story of the boathouse,
     suitcase open like the scoop of a backhoe,
passports still strewn on the bed,

and open the blinds a little more to look at your wife kneeling
     on the dock to touch the water once more,
the intentional way she plays with one finger,

how the water stirs but does not ripple.  That is how she's cared
     for you, how she caresses you
out of your phantom cave,

the trail of bread in the labyrinth, the thread
     that leads from the needle to close
the wound and stitch up depression.

In a different summer, she would appear cliché,
     the final mental snapshot to carry
in the luggage of the heart,

but today, grace no longer ethereal,
     but tangible, you rise.
You pack.