““Unmade, mid-morning. A dress where it fell, where you snaked from it. The slab of the bedsheet, marbled with creases. These pillows washed up along the strand-line. Plunder. Salvage? The end of the world beyond its edge. The path of grass where took down the tent. A gift-- the gift-wrap disturbed, the present taken. The guilt rolled back, the wave not broken, always breaking. The book left open, the page you were reading.””
