They're called recidivists. He says it only twice.
The syllables pinball as she nods then echoes back recidivists.
The word stays for dinner and invades the pool
once the evening becomes sultry and the clouds dark.
They are already wet when the rain,
and she thinks to ask How will I manage alone?
Him: It's automated only fools struggle.

Of the boys one got Lyme disease and stayed in bed for six months,
one had lips too big and probably drowned,
one lost his mind and hunted everyone looking for clues.
They fought, they thought themselves dogs,
growing at their own pace like an angry mob.
This is how things work.

Like a man he tries to explain:
Repeated movement propels without thought,
as in swimming or other questions to fill in the blanks.
But from his mouth emerge only bubbles.
The answers look like drowning.

The machine is ancient and like minnows its pieces attack.
Avoid moving parts or lose fingers and arms.
Looking down at her hands she knows
this is his territory: the machine, the machine.

Planes land themselves now he reminds her.
They are both old and the world complicated.
She dries, preparing to sleep and wake
sleep and wake.

When there's a hole in the door there's no reason to close it.
When being together is like being alone
there's no need even for doors.