nothing compared to the ocean. In the Atlantic, there is always action. The heart and fire and squiggly things of life. Yes, in a fountain too, but in the ocean he was dunking me and riding into me and

he'd left his watch on. I can see him now removing his watch, a man's job and taking it carefully to shore and then coming back to me. A preparation as if someone had laid out my satin pajamas on the bed. I rode with

my legs wrapped around him, the waves occasionally knocking us under, a contest. But weightlessness won. And he

entered me in salt.

Water.

Buoyancy.

Truancy.