My friend, who lost her husband
twice, first in death
and then in betrayal, orders
the pinot noir. Outside our window
lemon trees. The loss
she does not speak of—
unable to have children
with a man like that.
That she could love him
into her ...
What is that man doing?
He has been crouched in that corner for an eternity,
eight minutes, likely an hour, his gray face expressionless and
shimmering from the shallow pool water, the silver rim
of his glasses another prick of light
quilting the ripples rowdy children
make as ...