From “Hotels”
1. strand
how we left the party before midnight 
to search the beach, its strand of packed sand, 

its shark’s teeth & sea turtles digging nests 
under a lotus moon. how rain began 

to pock the beach, warning us away 
with heat lightning curling around the bay. 

how we sat in the hotel bar till closing 
& then in the lobby, afraid to part & let 

the conversation end — like film credits 
silently rolling. but, we still did not trust 

the elevator, floor by floor, its private space, 
our choices when the doors slid open.

2. threshold
how we left the party after midnight 
& thought we would walk to the pier, 

pelicans sleeping on pilings, gulls 
keening above, & a padlocked gate. 

nearby — a bench, one lantern shining, 
palmettos rattling in the wind. 

how the mist sputtered into rain 
as we strolled back to the hotel, 

the bellhop dozing near the front desk, 
our clothes dripping, our feet bare — 

we pushed our separate buttons 
in the elevator. when the doors slid open 

for me, how I hesitated, then stepped 
over the threshold — you almost shrugged, 

then reached for my hand as the doors 
began to close, and now the choice 

seemed to be mine — 
but that shrug, that shrug.