Page 173 of Wayfarers

more likely we’ll have it

to ourselves. We make our way

gingerly along the trail, Sylvie leading

with a flashlight and Winslow at her

heel, me bringing up the rear

with Sylvie’s phone light.

Moonlight seeps through

the leaves like platinum rain.

We step quiet as bandits

in the dark woods. I’m careful

not to stumble and break something

else. At the spring, encircled

by large rocks, the perfume of moss

embroiders the air. Frogs lift

their chant to the star-strewn sky.

An owl answers with its hollow call.

I should probably wait on land, I say

I don’t want to risk tripping

and getting my cast wet.

Nice excuse but I’m not getting

naked alone, Sylvie says.

I’ll get naked on shore, I say.

And just sit there naked while I swim? Sylvie asks.

Sure, I say. I’m not afraid to be naked around you.

Sylvie Naked

I haven’t thought lately

about the way my body looks—I’m just

a mouth for telling jokes, for biting

back the truth, hands for steering

and touching Knox’s stubbled jaw and sometimes