An untouchable and drastic movement
soothed us into two hundred square feet.
It’s the city, we say. We hold on to more
or less the same things, side by each.
Don’t ask after us. We’ve been combing
an edge into this sand for months.
We vacation to the north. An empty path
is our path, for the minor seconds
during which we sense its beauty, pass over it
to stare at fog that chimneys across the mountains,
maybe until the slaps of our entitled feet
grow inaudible from a significant distance.
Autumn is already rubbing its scent on corners.
It calls for reducing cold, tangible room; we’ll stitch
up a cerulean pool into a pocket, make it usable.
We could live here, you say. Imagine
we lived here, I say. The water gains speed,
bounces light back, dives into and out of the question.