delivery (or, there is no endpoint on the globe of our hearts)

I.

when the fog changed its narrative, the dolphins breached.  foam curled
like commas from their beaks and midday strings of
sunlight molded into the pottery of evening.

II.

you asked for thunder but there was
not yet an allegory of rain.  the thought
gurgled in the river of your future sighs, a
small turning rock averse to the quiet
of sediment.

night climbed on a crow’s wings whose
feathers stuttered cliche, pleading for verse and chorus.
unlike both of us, you were quiet
then.

III.

upon arrival, the sledmaster said
it was not a delivery.  “delivery connotes
an endpoint,” he said.  pellets of ice
plunged from his beard onto the
dusky backs of his team.

we both were puzzled by
the usage of “connote”.  we had both been thinking “connotate”.
the sledmaster himself
was not a surprise.  your syntax was always
that of the wild.

IV.

he was correct in some ways,
wrong perhaps, in others.
there is no endpoint on the globe of our hearts.