A hunting blind on a boardwalk
perched over an estuary’s low tide
where hunters would sit on well-worn benches,
stick their barrels out of rectangular holes in its walls.
Your stomach lurches just standing in its threshold,
but the rain’s heavy, your icy knuckles ache.
You sit inside, blow warm air into your palms,
rub them together, then stick them between your thighs.
Walls are covered in permanent marker and knife carvings
from people desperate to leave a mark.
Declarations of relationships with years next to them.
Some names crossed out in fresher ink.
You think about permanence as you watch a sandpiper
walk along the weak sliver of river at the end of the estuary.