This wasn’t what you had in mind
when you said, A house by the sea—
this flat Japanese plan; this expanse
that stubs on a bunker of grass;
these swans hissing humans off the nest;
and vitex, the abortion tree, scratching at the window screen.
I don’t think my mother was part of your ideal.
Or this dinner of wet chicken lobster and gin.
You meant Sweden, a kind of sober heaven
where you wouldn’t have to think about God.
Stay, stunt love, if you can stand it here.
Soon your double body will be nobody, no more.