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.