It’s come to this:
She’s reciting poetry aloud
while standing fully clothed
in a clawfoot tub.

It’s come to this:
He’s whispering answers
to unanswerable questions
while lying naked in a nearby grotto.

It’s come to this:
The ball of flax twine slips
from the kite’s talon, lands
on a bluff, bounces, then rolls

over the edge into more thinning air.

It’s come to this:
She doesn’t need to dry off. Instead,
she loosens one screw, and the entire
bicycle seat comes apart. She can’t forgive

herself for such clumsy disassembly.

It’s come to this:
He remembers barnacles,
quickly grabs jeans and a jacket,
packs up his collection of lightning

flashes, heads to the pier.

It’s come to this:
She ties a string skirt around her hips,
reaches across a canyon
for an apple slice, knocks over

a wobbly shale palisade in the process.

It’s come to this:
Wind blows traces of salt and burning
dune grass across the sound
to the only place where they might meet

if it doesn’t crumble first.

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