by Emily Wall

Everybody has lives
to return to, don't they?

We swing out into the world
in July, in sailboats,

on motorcycles, dig our limbs
into white beach sand, hike

the Sierras, kayak any islands
we can find--

the canyon of our bodies
hungry, satiated, hungry--

as we watch the days tick down
before we have to, you know--

go back. What is that place, where
we live? Why do we subsist in

attached garages and I-5 and
Food-4-Less? Why do we love

ourselves like occasional
lovers, leaving our hot sand skin

just under suits and heels,
waiting, impatient?

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