I take as tenderness the soft curve
a red car makes to miss me,
my body half outside
the narrow shoulder
of what undid me once: Hover of late light, aquatint
on your bare back, unlined by the illogic
of bikini straps. My far-away look outran yours
past dunes and wood-stubble fences, to a tower of pines
where someone carved, into feathered bark,
a filthy name for the pinkest part of my flesh.
Silent in the back seat
we crossed the Sagamore. I wrapped my arms
around a cardboard box: Euclidean geometry
agape at moon and cockle shells,
the improbable perfections of dried wild roses.
Taillights hemorrhage at the bend,
the trees, up ahead, still inured
to unglisten.