As we wandered among the leggy, shore birds
there was little doubt in our racing hearts
they would insist we were too unsuspecting—
as if anticipating our desires as mistakes
of little interest. Just out of reach
boats drifted by. We longed for them, or,
dreamed of peeling off wet suits between
parked cars—we could not imagine it otherwise:
at the sandy edge of the parking lot a one-winged
angel lingers. I stop and open the car door;
it's unnerving—but the music sounds especially
like our music. I smile. You greet me.
The truck passes that carries our effluent
to some nameless pond. We think: good-bye
to this.
rdking