In September

Cling of sand between cold toes from one last
swim, and evening pulses its way down
the horizon, three more miles to pass
before dinner in the sleepiest town.
Mussels in wine sauce, halibut, extra
bread for soaking all that salty broth,
you want to recount the details. Let’s not
fuss whether the wind blew south or north,
no use in keeping track of how we found
our way back to those zipped-together
sleeping bags. Only that we came around
the bend to a sun past setting, met her
echoes at the shore, waves aglow with all
that was left of her sweet Midwestern drawl.