When I met you in the hall you were all

inclement weather on a stony coast

and you held my hand as though we were more

than we could be: preppy kids in a pop-song duet

retrofitting dignifying deniable half-truths

at the end of the late-night double-feature

picture show.

                        We met again before your disability

support pension days, when I was a bright-eyed

ingenue at the agency after-party, coked-up,

with the hands of the randy partner (a known

pederast and pants man — and oh does he come

to a sticky end) all over me.  He had character

not presence — it wasn’t a failing.

                                                      How I loved you

then but find now the unexamined life continuous

digital glitch presenting as analog texture.

In Fremantle we tour the wreck

of the Batavia — preserved immersed timbers tell us

humans are heavier than water, lighter than air —

blank reflections pale as faded decals slipped

from an astrolabe’s display case.