We were friends years before that night among the boxes, unlabeled for fast stacking in the old pickup. We’re not finished, I said. There’s wine, and I’m not taking it with me. Tipping that last ocean view, you said, I’ll miss you so much, before that half-light kiss pressed a bloom straight through the island. Our hands sands a wave makes without music, without a bed. A motion awaited, undressing like a storm just ahead. So close without my glasses. Can you see? you smiled, one hand touching my face, the other driving the dented guardrail over the bridge.
THE FISHERMANS SONG OF FOUR SEASONS (excerpt) How many fish have I landed, you may ask, those with silver-mouths and jade-hard scales? We’ll make a bonfire of reedstalks and broil some of the choice ones. Tap the earthen jar and pour the wine into a gourd.