As we walk under a merciless sun across
        a field of scrubgrass that chafes our ankles
A hot wind blows across your face and I see
        that age belongs to you now with its spots
        and crevices --

Our path is blocked by a mob of bee's balm
        as tall as our shoulders and we wade
        through its rustle to see Lake Oswego
                on the other side and it is quiet sapphire
                        in our late afternoon --

You slip your shirt off and run to the edge
But stop short remembering:
        This lake
        This too-deep lake
And your tainted body --

You are ashamed now and will not look
        at me and we are so still in time
        our seconds sink at our feet;
I turn away, watching mallards wade
                in the rushes
As you dress again --