On the Airbnb in Carqueiranne, our king mattress’s truly two
         mechanical singles scooched collectively. With remotes, we govern

how excessive to boost his toes, my arms, complete our bodies
         butt-down birds inside plush porcelain cups. Positive, we now have intercourse.

However largely we giggle, or on the café by accident order
         half a dozen espressos, return to the residence frizzy-frizzy.

Even so, no matter river that is, it’s calm. It’s cataracted.
         Cellophaned. First grade, my greatest good friend’s dad carried his pistol

contained in the visitor toilet, by no means left. I’m ashamed
         to confess that for many of elementary faculty I puzzled,

at any time when witnessing the mother slathering biscuits
         with I Can’t Consider It’s Not Butter, what she’d completed incorrect.

Typically, mid-terror, his eyes metallic-consequence huge,
         my husband screams for his flashlight, knocks one fist towards

the mid-century bedside desk his father constructed for our residence.
          The place’s the gear, the place’s the hearth, who misplaced the fucking batteries.

It’s not totally a mistake, believing him awake.
          A part of his physique lives inside a metropolis I’ve by no means explored

endlessly. My favourite poet studied classical piano at college,
          hated the stage, opted as a substitute to carry out for the campus swim workforce.

I like to recollect the best way, when nervous, she knocks
          one fist towards her cardigan pocket, ensuring a delicate pack

of smokes remains to be inside. I prefer to think about a pool, heated
          and full of salt, the place each little bit of us floats.

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