Before my nose turns whisky red, round and pocked marked, and before we line up our glory songs, bring me out here to the beach head, past the crab shacks, and we'll lay out between the rocks to look out onto the Atlantic, where you will curl your toes, and tie back your hair.
And we can each start to take all of this, in a particular way, before we become old warriors, before we are retired finally from hockey, to spend our summers flying into remote Québec lakes to fish from the pontoons of our float planes. And before we fly back home to walk up the front lawn from the lake, to reminisce with new friends about all our scars and to count our broken noses
Or we could lay out here instead and still be unsure. I could watch the way you hold your neck and curve, when you turn my way, and we can stay here for a little while, before we stand up and fold our towels, before we wipe the sand from our feet, and then climb the stairs again, up the tall cliff, to leave.