There on the bend of the wildest river, the bear and its glittered fish, the otter that washes its hands. The man stands on a stone in the midst. He doesn’t turn to look, the woman on the bank, legs tan and water in her hand, but he knows that she’s there. She is the complete to the scene, the dub and lub, the match that lights that that matters.
It’s the backyard and the boy is there, stained a little orange about the mouth. He sits splay-legged long in the grass. This is the tableau of things that happen, love and girls and the few white miles to come.
Just because the sun is in the glass and the lawn sweeps towards a bay won’t mean she wants or won’t want the boy. The man too cooks something in sauce at the front of the house. Her cheek in hand, lengthy miles of eyes, these warnings are not for you to say.