Shirtless, he shaves at the upstairs sink,
dips the brush, stirs the cup. The rind
of shaving soap softens to a luscious
froth.

There is something familiar about the buck,
straining to ease himself under
the bottom strand of a barbed-wire fence,

Built to last, its vertical lines are plum.
The only ornamentation, a simple
crown moulding, the inward curve
of the cavetto.

He runs his hand over pine boards, propped against a sawhorse. Determined to build his own coffin …

This morning there’s no place I’d rather be than here with you. Light enlarges us, the hour lingers, a white sail skims the edge of the sea.