The sinners don’t often come here
to learn to write—their skin
pale with too little sunlight, the lost
pigmentation. They float
like lost souls in boats over
the water, drifting slowly toward
and away from one another
until the snow comes—
snowflakes falling
like small questions—
will darkness fall
like winter here?
can’t I remember the way
the water looked—just this way?
did I remember
to turn off
the lights?