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I spy a potted plant in the conic alcove when we kiss.
I bend in half, slyly offering my ‘nice a**,’ and your heavy arms tug like war.
I suppose you’ve won when you embrace me, lips life preservers in wet lakes.
No one sinks this time around.
I’m watching this dance, seated criss-cross applesauce on the ceiling, not there.
But the familiarity floods my heads and we speak our lost language,
physical French, punctuated by groans and mmhms, without uttering a word.
Round counters, round floors, 70’s kitchen appliances.
And by now, I’ve realized that potted plant is plastic.
We’re going to the shore, voyaging,
to scoop handfuls of sand in pockets, pebbles of eroded rock and memory.
Your large hands squeeze mine in prayer.
We’ve nothing but gray horizons.