The taste of the damp air
and the freckled shoulders,
the day the cat broke another vase
and we sticky tacked everything down.
The way the house shook in a storm swell
(how we lived in a storm swell)
and how there were no curtains again.
Remember the silly bits?
White wine and the mismatched dinners
and the way it felt on the cliff at dark,
palms to the rock, still warm from the day.
And the sandy tile
under bare feet.
The garden patch,
and the fog
that settled early
and choked the roses.
Wasn't it golden, the whole mess of it?
Wasn't it awful, how wonderful it was?
I would never have curtains again
if it meant
more of this