The Fieldstone Review


As you wade out
you leave no wave or ripple;

there is only
what my hands make:
slapping against the surface
like a beaver's tail,
a martyr's
to shut all eyes
against acidic spray.

I see you go under
with the forks and spoons,
your mouth
in an air bubble below
in the base of a whiskey glass;

we tighten
our lips (respond)
against the fruit flies,
the oily sediment:
built up
while we have been sleeping (all along)

somewhere else.