It's cold thinking about stars

and distance. The lakeshore—edge of the world, water

stilled. It's so cold you said, but it's September and the forest

fire's smoke blankets small lights until they slumber

so deeply they forget to shine. We were

lit by the well-brand bourbon served

at the Stumble Inn, lakefront dive for local drinkers

who kept families driving and boys strapped in

the backseats dreaming yes and someday. Just

like that we're men somehow, who've come back

not asleep or dreaming, finally holding those long summer

promises we'd made. We say so what

escaping the car, our skins, as easily as diving. What stretching

what distance to have touched this with you. Forget

the water is cold. Let summer into your limbs

until we both shine wet

radiantly arrived.