the release there is his
weight, gorged and dull,
a brief suffocation .  Her breath

comes as rainwater to an open
foundation as he shifts to his side
and closes his eyes.  If she coughs

or lets her legs fall apart
 liquid, like overripe mango pulp,
will trail her inner thigh
seeking sea level.  She rises on a hip,
sheltering the sheets from the storm
at her center.

Here, she thinks, is the root of purloined thought,
or the flat earth, or the waxing tides.
Now are the tedious truths, the broad noodles,
the need of a good shoe.  The lists

of things to do comes smashing
on her brow, replacing the human weight
with an anchor of daily distraction.  Yet one last
starfish alights:

that when he will never feel closer


but most alone.

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