I

These are not blue days,
but the sea attacks us on the highway,
drawing near its waves
—martial and ebbed—
like old soldiers to the shore.
Also like an orgasm.

Reflected on the windshield
are ferries with women's names,
making love in the bay
making do with the sea.

This is not the 18th day.
We tear it finally from the calendar,
and this rain, peaceful in summer,
fills us with a smoke like that of
the cigar you sometimes enjoyed sharing,
so as to love me slowly,
to continue caressing me.

This is not the 18th day.
A teenager with a dragon's stare
brings our suitcases to the tenth floor,
leaving us next to this dubious sky
whose body is sore
from so many gray clouds and storms
that moan like you when I kiss you.

Tomorrow, when we wake, the sea will be
a cold sheet, fallen to the floor.