Ulysses dogs us down the night soil lane,
through paling forests, splintering with pique,
his collar sounds like bellbirds near a creek
that sounds like water running down a drain.
We thought we knew where this was going to end:
a plan we had the foresight to forget.
She stops to feel the bluestone. "Smooth," she says,
a purring question mark between her legs,
"as mountain river stones," her fingers wet,
her body curling like a river bend.
We’re not romantic. We know where we are.
We don’t say things we haven’t said before.
The sound of breakers is a passing car.
We know this is a footpath, no foreshore.