They kept a certain intimacy, clean in line
Like the last ray on an unsheathed knife
At the deliberation, lifting each limb,
The arms twice – as if broken
Or attempting to deal
With the provincial numbness.
Someone told me
It accompanied existence
Stealing thick hours from that flat night.
Just listless, those plum-red gowns
And the lull of advancing feet
Perhaps they thought themselves
Filing back through the streets.
Two still stood
On the pier, as if on a parapet
Staring out at that drowned blue
And imagining a place different.