One Plus One Minus One

That week on the shore, I was the one absent

in stacked echoes that continued.

How the hours were taken

and I, worn-

out as payment. His frustrations

all of them

clogged

and repeating. His mouth with

its ongoing brine

of sorrow. Words rolled along. They circled less

half their syllables.

He spelled the crease

in a narrow paper he’d saved

for a month in his pocket, spelled the name

of my mother

as if I hadn’t known her.

One day, two beds

became our house. Next day, two other

beds, and the body of water

was a single gauze.

From street to sloping street, we walked, split

by the ocean

of wretching words he used

through humid blues. Less sun

as the variations

of language set, grainy

with particles. Somewhere else

it was glimmering

to someone

who was laughing. My ear

was his mirror. I heard him grooming

his contours. Of course, he churned it again—

commenting over the pauses.

We went into night.

Clouds kicked around.

No need to find water

when the ocean was everywhere.