What can I tell you with all these miles pulled taut
between us and time split like fruit so everything
happens to me two whole hours before
it happens to you? Here, already, I can feel
the dumbstruck night disintegrate. Listen: it is
the hour of the dog - a thousand husk-throats hacking
a beach-long ache of sky. Beneath it someone
is walking me home, just inches from the quiet
shift and swell of the sea that takes us,
almost without sound, past the statue-white
chairs in the tea-garden crowding
the waterfront, facing seawards like ghosts.
My door is open; we climb into its shadow,
saying nothing, until only the moon is left
unchanged and familiar, and his face closer in, his
breathing like the sound of the whole sea in one, small
uninhabited shell; like the sighing of steam which starts
deep in the pistons, then shudders an engine into life.
(to Contents)
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