I.

We climbed atop a roof

of concrete moss

and dandelion shoots

WHAT WOULD YOU DO

WITH a MILLION D0LLAR$? screamed the graffiti;

you started retelling The Pearl

on the crumbling walls of a World War II bunker.

Breaker Bay on Google Maps:

Seatoun, Wellington

perhaps a satellite image

would have you captured

mid-laugh

shirtless and reddening

dripping ocean fresh

on the pixels of sun-warmed pebbles

that we rolled across

like chains of lạp xưởng

rendering on a stone grill

while you talked about the way

Europeans had sex

half an almond between your teeth

lips on my fingers.

II.

you were back online and I was online looking up Dorset:

Ceremonial county in England,

southwest of Stonehenge

the first picture showed

a seaside stone archway

far more majestic

than Breaker Bay’s

so can I be blamed

for picturing all

(in my bitter manner)

all! the majestic

~~~~ seaside European babes ~~~~?

Prologue.

we tiptoed through the narrow crack of my front door and stood at

the mouth of a moonlit lounge. friends were moulding into one

another, legs spilling from mattresses and arms hanging off padded

chairs. we pooled into the final strip of carpet next to the kitchen

tiles, raspy whispers turned into spaced out goodnights and the arms,

unyielded to the wandering minds, curved into crevices that fit them

best. soon we would sleep on the floor, the roof, the

beach and other un-bedly places;

two bodies seeping in unspoken words and repeated comfort

which, to the naked eyes, seemed to hurt more than what it was

worth.

III.

Dorset on Google Maps:

Fort Dorset, historical landmark

Breaker Bay, Seatoun, Wellington