He is kissing his wife passionately
in front of the tsunami,

the big wave is frozen behind them,
the lip has that green-white

tinge you get in oil paintings,
& Miss Dust, transfixed by the moving lips,

forgets all about the wave, threatening
to demolish the tussock, the grass

banks, the bleached houses
lining up along the shore.

One day Miss Dust hears him
playing piano behind a door,

as she edges closer to the white paint,
she swears he’s getting her

right between the jeans,
she never even knew

he played piano before,
& even if she’d known,

she would’ve been surprised
to hear him do it so tenderly.