to reach the green allée and the red-lit colonnade.
We press our noses deep into the opening frangipani
and when the Latin band begins we dance to the end of the song.
We dip our children into the ocean and drink
their salty smiles while two feet away a man lies
drunk in the grass. The sun will burn him again.
His shoes are gone and his clothes have dried to his body like a shroud.
In the end we all have to lie down.
If I'm lucky you'll touch my hand and I'll remember
all the good you have done me and your beauty—
no one was more beautiful, your wet black hair, your hands full of roses.