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.