the sleepiness, the adage-of-the-times, the cafe stretched back
and the streets in a hollow, in the smell of the
sea. he was across from me and very tired, he undid
his shirt — two buttons, then
another — I caught my breath. it was a polyester
booth and fries, the racketing openness of the streets he said
reminded him of the town by the Columbia where
he grew up, that same vagueness and
the closeness folded– blue-green
trees in a mirage up the pavement, he and his friends
kicked over flower pots in the darkness.
they ran the gauntlet into long orange-lit
forests and soft brown places, for him the closeness is
distorted, when he tells it the mythology
stays intact.
I tasted him later
at the hotel, we slept in very late most days
and went out to do nothing. the ocean
watched me kiss and lightly fornicate.
it knew I would become memory before
I did, it watched me like a father
and waited for the fall.
the last pavilion 