Rain sheets keep the town at its posts along
Victorian streets. A slickening of
garden sun-tile, outside, where our cocks
whispered in the parched orchard sticks.
The storm rose sluggishly over places our
kisses left, when we refused this house
arrest, under a hail-clattering roof.
A puckish freedom coming off and on,
this morning moved towards morning’s spunk.
We look slowly off, not taking much in.
Avuncular, a pair of plastic grooms
on a wedding cake, afar, by sexton
and reef-map, mannered passengers at
mid-ship; sailors awake, a string of light
in our hands. The Atlantic rolls the sails,
our lit candles carried to the rails.
The bringing of navigational charts,
our place together to elbow the stars.