WE HavE A PICTURE

of Lake Superior

and the way

the highway bends ‘round the stubborn rocks; of the keen-edged cliffs that displayed the full breadth of calm before us

of parking

our priceless, laden car

(its decal of Laxmi near the hatchback window) between the painted yellow lines,

between the luxury of the first hotel

of our expansive journey

and the seductive shoreline

or of the weary road

of red wine in unwrapped plastic cups

and cotton sweaters —

tush of blood beneath the skin

dissolving the evening cool

and sand caught within pockets and fingernails.

of laying my cheek upon

the wave-smoothed skin of a driftwood log, the crown of my head sweetly touching that of my Love

tresses mixing blonde into umber

as if in sleep.

David Anderson