That spring, we lived on bowls of risotto, jugs of table wine,
and wilting olives (with stones smashed). Cats padded
over dust and stone, bloody little teeth bare, whiskers dripping.
You reclined on limestone slabs, peeled back your bathing suit
to reveal tan lines, upturned your bag in search of a bracelet,
and everything fell out; books, lotions, headscarf, varnish,
and the sun, dipping, drenched you. We could not leave the sea before
dusk or eat before midnight. In our tiny, bare room, air tinged with ash
from a forest fire, above encroaching street clamor. It belonged to us,
but not one of us. Not only one of us
d.
[...] with constant momentum and direction, swam straight through
currents and riptides: continued. Events need not achieve magnitude
or shape or quality, or be quantified what so ever, so much so,
I could forget your face