C'est le 1er mai, les bateaux se reposent
The wild mulch, seaweed
speeds itself upward toward the
light like any common tree, yet
soggy with the waters runoff, boats
linger in a lazy sway, lonely at
anchor, and the man casts his line -
east, he is facing due east, addicted
to due east, she rhymes words with
his name, fiddled the ring at her finger,
he says they are already married though
they are not; he likes to move in and out
of pretence, space is an opulent neverland
to him, he has no solid presence in either the
here, or there.

She is wearing a lavender color dress
with small flowers across the front, she
has to squint to keep her vision occupied
with him, he burns at the back of her mind,
and the water laps at her feet, toes sink

she thinks they can speak without words, though
he may just be the silent type.