The only sound was cormorant clatter
across the heat and the sea’s coral hills.
Silent as mangroves, you and I paddled.
It seemed to me, love, that the sun stood still.
That was Key West. Now I’m back in Brooklyn.
You’ve migrated someplace I’ve never seen.
The copper sun slots itself down Union,
varnishing brick with an igneous sheen.
I aim my phone at city-squeezed radiance.
Where you are, you’ll hear a digital chirp,
the song of our long-distance alliance,
launched across networks to you on some perch:
I send the sun via handheld device—
or almost—these pixels, inert as ice.