Purgatory must be like this,
myopic, wet, all noise white,
the ocean inexhaustible.

The old woman to our right
could have been a saint, clothed
in layers and layers of white.

And the terns, they strutted
then scattered when a sopping dog
ran in, then out, of the thick fog.

I was grateful you had pulled
me away from my dull schedule
for that walk, though I,

selfish to the end,
could not bring myself to say so.
I’ll say it now, too late:

purgatory will be like this:
the nothingness behind us,
the nothingness ahead;

you and I, arm in arm—
two men holding each other.