You pass the bag of sour wine we ripped from the box a few days ago. It’s your turn to read. We miss the sunset for the third night in a row, though we have no excuse from the back of your CRV. You read me, I want to live in your hair, and I kiss you before passing the bag, aware that the words are Kaminsky’s. The dunes softly slouch into each other like tanned skin, save tracks from families with American flags on their buggies⁠—you begged me to try slicing into them at golden hour, but I assured you your car wasn’t made for it. You, whoever You is, will always play the part of The Reckless while I play the role of No. It is a necessary dynamic. I dig under the unzipped sleeping bag, laid out carefully, for hot fries and not finding them, take stage. I read something from Vuong about water overflowing a boat, I think, but I know I read it with bravado. I don’t hope you’ll kiss me a few months from now, but I would read poetry in the back of your fogging car forever. I lean the bag against my sandy sweatshirt, to convey the inevitable. So, we run to the campground outhouse as fast as we can trudge in unlaced sneakers and interlaced fingers. I try not to think about you listening to me urinate. I land flat on our makeshift bed and try to tug your arm down into it. No, it’s almost over, you say, thumbing through my book. And I am gone without realizing you’ll finish while I’m sleeping.