We ate peaches on a balcony
above the dirtiest
car park you can imagine.
The sea was a slice
at the bottom of the sky.
The undersides of our feet
were powdery grey and we
idled, making a treasure map
of our bedroom floor.
When we took a slow walk
through the village with its
warm fish blood smell and
houses bearded with purple
flowers, the small dogs
without homes made me sad,
which isn’t to mention
the small cats without homes
that did the same to you
(my companion).
Later we watched the tide
lick away a declaration
of love in the sand.
And then, the next bright
morning, our tiny guide
the water rushing, holding
our bags up above his head.
We had never known
water so greedy,
or our bodies so pathetic
and betrayed. The little
black stones cut into
our shins and the tops
of our feet. Blood puffed
out into the white water,
trailing behind us, then onto
tissue, like roses. I wore
nothing under my sundress
on the drive back and the air
flowed around underneath it
(my mischievous friend).
That early evening,
we looked down through
the glass bottom
of a small boat, drinking
cold bottled beer.
The shock of the morning
was a goosebumpy
memory, the sleepy water
as they streamed
and streamed past,
a sudden influx of robots.