By Dean Browne
Castaways, we hit the forest — our camping stove
turned low, I gripped my tent close for its trial
in virgin attitudes of stiffness while
lamps fluttered on the dark. My roof sank wave
on wave accordion-like, the only sin
we knew; and soon the Jameson appeared.
I’d burned one back and by the third
she laid her hand on mine, like a napkin ...
Later, I caught those tiny gasps from Joan
and Michael’s tent where he slipped into her
like (this I thought) a frog à la Bashō;
those dark rippling walls where she kept center,
held her breath, so I had to puzzle how
one could leave and neither be alone.