In Georgia the land is stubborn. It refuses to surrender to the water, spatters out roots and roads and patches of reedy grass for bodylengths into the shallows before it finally gives way. Either this, or the water is stubborn: crawling out hollows in this breathing fossil, Georgia, who makes itself from the millimeters left. Billboards for pralines made fresh last the decades. I’m busy lasting decades, making dreams of making swamps when I wake up with a finger inside me. Here we are. Both stubborn. I know I know the outside edges of me and he knows this isn’t true knows if I wasn’t thirsty I shouldn’t have laid out my roots to drink knows I shouldn’t have fallen asleep next to him if I wasn’t curious, really, what might be left after the erosion. Here I am. Somewhere that isn’t Georgia. Something that is either holding its breath or has forgotten how to make rock out of it. Instead makes sound. Instead makes fresh. Instead makes a place where pecan meets sugar, where neither remembers how to stop being made of earth.