This is the edge of what is soon to be – an in-between place like a dock with sea warped boards jutting out across an eddy that might be salt water or it might be fresh. What I know is that the depths below are as descending as the sky is ascending. There is an absence of bottom here, a wedge of blue and green that laps at the air and tunnels into the undiscovered. The dock shift-shapes into a house and the tide lifts the whole of all I imagine to possess. Everything once moored finds freedom in the surf. It wasn’t supposed to last as long as it did. It was supposed to last longer. But the melting truth managed to flood the banks. The sky remains fixed. But the flood refuses bounds. I’m a good swimmer but the press of land assures my feet: I am still here. There’s still enough land to sit down without sinking in. And God is here.