Paper resists the press of wax
I push the rounded tip along whiteness of sand
the beach where blue gravity flies with light:
meet me in the open air restaurant
by the River where there is no more fish.
Together we will suppose and imagine,
still familiar with the blond beer, the bread and olives
the white salad and salmon from a can.
If I cannot write about you, at least let's meet.
Everything I haven't told you yet is mad.
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