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by Charles Entrekin
Yes. Best of all is the water, flat,
skipping stones on the surface. Empty
evening light. Yes. It was perfect.
We made love and napped in the firelight.
Outside, the gray breath of a storm.
I remember bluegill, fish large
as your hand, swimming like leaves,
and my grandfather's bottom land,
his swamps and creeks. Yes,
your breasts remember me, and
my fingers remember you,
soft as chrysanthemums, wet.
Yes. All right. But afterwards
when I said never mind the old man
in the restaurant with money,
never mind the cold incoming fog,
it made no difference.
Yes. I know each evening
brings the chance of being wrong,
but tonight the water's smooth, and
even in December the sea birds are here
arriving in a vague and brittle white
across the sea shore; they are on time
and alive inside their own complex
of reasons and joy.