We were here on a frayed, woven runner
under the cloudbanks of Easter. We ran
our fingers over its lacquer-smothered
panels. The pillbox held old sand and three corners
of velveteen, strands of a pelt, our torn sense
of tides, while in the sun sat a white bowl of oranges.
We read from the script on the map. Curve truly. Light
in the lens. Speak and hold fast. Dusk in the bay,
we read, and the blush of waves slipped shyly out to sea.