In full disease she sighed two-faced relief,
in the neighborhood with sycamore trees
where they’d met the deep-end, steamy and wet.

She’d smile, reflected in his sunglasses;
every grain of sand unaccounted for;
he thought they had no time for false belief.

He thought, it’s now unorthodox to see
confession as duty, though stiff collars
were back in fashion for the young and slick.

He bucked the trend, confessed desire to her,
like a small man in muddy uniform
delivering a foul, pungent package.

She laughed, the truth incognito no more.
He saw her instinct dressed in black fishnet
scraping the sea beneath a bleeding sky,

his true words stranded like beached jelly fish–
broken glass dials receding in the surf.
Nobody, least of all her, wanted them.

 

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