Distance between one shore and another.
Each dip of her oar is a Cheyne-stoke breath.
All I hear is the sink of paddle into water
in a mist, not the direction of her craft.
Perhaps she works her way towards me,
rather than away to the further shore.
When she stops it is time for her to disembark
on this or the other shore. Eyes shut she is
blind on this shore. Distance is between one
breath and another. In vigil I wait.