In a country, not his country, two might touchdown.

She might touch his hand, say, our country. Two might
not look back at homes built elsewhere from chicken fat,

roaches, water-oak rootedness, and a hope for children.
Two might have worked through practices of forgiveness,

breathless asanas, daily downward existence, heads full
of blood. Two might breathe palm-fronds, boabs, spinifex.

Two might have left friends behind, friends like the ones
who flame-threw their hearts without flame. Without fire.

Two might not look back, might turn their back on a world
that claims mating for life is outlandish. Two might say

something about exhalation is comprehensive, might say
how little is known of the monogamous heart——how

little is known of the fierce faith of the French Angelfish.