Tabernacle

Castaways, we hit the forest — our camping stove

turned low, I gripped my tent close for its trial

in virgin attitudes of stiffness while

lamps fluttered on the dark. My roof sank wave

on wave accordion-like, the only sin

we knew; and soon the Jameson appeared.

I’d burned one back and by the third

she laid her hand on mine, like a napkin ...

Later, I caught those tiny gasps from Joan

and Michael’s tent where he slipped into her

like (this I thought) a frog à la Bashō;

those dark rippling walls where she kept center,

held her breath, so I had to puzzle how

one could leave and neither be alone.