The sea, far off, with its rooms and strangers.
Where words recede under the muscle of tide.
In clear moments, I remember your studio
and you in the doorway. If I had not left,
would you have stayed and not turned back
to your blunt vocabulary of strokes,
your monochrome palette. The unmade bed,
a few hairpins arranged on the sheet.
Bight, slip, seawall. We were so quick
to learn each other’s imperfections.
Six rooms, six paintings. The shadows grow
more opaque. Nothing that can’t be painted out.
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