We talked over dinner and drinks. Tidal slough’s plush breath,
fossil light of stars. Tried not to repeat ourselves.
But the center slips, lobe and larynx. All the meaningful
bends in the road. And time, that rock tumbler.
Later, we woke in separate beds.
Friends point us in the right direction, but we can’t get there
from here. Or maybe we can, but it’s like your
grandfather’s axe: first the handle goes, then the head.
In every photo, our eyes turn as if toward a stage,
fabric horizon that gives against our touch.