You’re in a boat on the ocean, your head on the lap of your lover. Your hands skim the surface. No wait. You’re in your black Volvo delivering mail. The sun is coming up and there’s a deer strolling across the highway with nowhere to go, but you could be eating oysters with red sauce on the city square. Reggae in an adjacent caf é. Cars parked at angles. The radio is but static. Your mouth is moving to the tune you’ve long imagined. In the sky, a painter’s neglected guitar. In your lover’s arms, an ocean of musical notes and his damp seiner’s sleeves. The sun comes up slowly. The moon never so round. Your drink tastes picante. There’s a melodic clatter of shells on the floor of your car. The doe in the road knows you. Her eyes resemble your lover’s. You are strumming his arm. Water laps at the hull.