by Taylor Brunson

	René Magritte, 1953

Yes, erosion, many-mouthed and tender, undresses 
us, but I promise I will stay with you until the end. 

I would rather our slow unwinding than what is taken 
by every ship sailed, and days’ annual stretching

toward what I am afraid to hope for. Yes, the season returns 
the sun, sharpening its gaze with each passing year, blue-lipped

seas drawing closer. I am sorry for the length of this lesson—
that I asked you to turn our backs to the water, every other fish 

glistering like precious stones, and how willing you were 
to avert your eyes. It has taken me so long to turn into you,

ready to be unmade under wide-tongued tides, but I promise
the future is swelling to meet us. What is left for the fish

thrown back if not a world warming over, forever
hooked? Please. I promise I cannot let you go.



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Taylor Brunson is a poet living in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, whose work has recently been featured in or is forthcoming from Non.Plus Lit, perhappened, Dwelling Literary, Horse Egg Literary, and Interstellar Literary Review. Taylor serves as an assistant poetry editor for Four Way Review and an assistant nonfiction editor for Nashville Review.