At the coffee shop you love,

white mugs heavy on the table

between us, young baristas—

spiky haired and impatient—

cannot imagine how two people

so old to them can feel so wanton,

coffee growing cold between us,

middle-aged bodies growing hot

under the other’s gaze. Even now,

apart, you send me songs so I may

listen to love from the golden throat

of a saxophone, piano keys playing

jazz across my soft belly.

How is it the tide of terror

has quit rising in me, or rises

and recedes as tides do, bringing

sea glass worked smooth

and lovely by the sheer fact

of time, bringing trash—

plastic mesh and old sneakers—

useless things now we might

bag up and remove, bringing

a lapping tongue of water up

over our toes as we hold hands

and walk along its edge—

carefully, gleefully, both.