Long way she never leapt, gladly

into the rain, summer’s resulting in – all

by accident, and by season

her hands moved him, picked up night and

his wristwatch reflecting

stage lights in different colors, at different

angles as his hand stroked the width of her

thigh. If it had not lasted so long, it would

have been. Almost were, almost crushing

his fingers when she tried

to stand, found herself held at the edge

where she brought flowers, looked

down into gray ripples, raked gravel, an ocean

at the door each time they parted,

or seemed so, the puddles

large enough to go willingly. Where the camera

found her, or else she went faceless, in the lack

of dark windows for reflection, features

washed off by the smack of water

again and again, staying under

as long as his breath, rising, filling her

lungs. At the surface of waves, not free of them, most

photogenic – half dying, half fearless – eyes

caught her as herself, decisively alone

in her body, the winter gone,

wet clothes still dripping