SACRE VERT

 while August purrs along the Cap Corse coast

staying it’s fingers with salt and hot

 

vegetables, it’s knees with tangled sheets

and wrested skin, the island rains and its flagstones

 

bleed from blue to green, which is to say

there is a stone that precedes us hand to

 

god I swear we will move to the table

faultless yet becoming, still melting and and

 

and pedestal mercy is a most wanted self is

mulberry on baguette you are breathing

 

in hand to god this is a crescent century

under a thunder moon and we are both

 

on the beam we are both full of shells

comm nplace cracks in un comm nplace places

 

never not a little bit hungry, boiling

in the fold between veneration and love

 

then as now you knew there was

only time for the long way

 

just as opaque as a thought without its object

(without color you’ll never know if it wants you)

 

true pigment running down the local cliff

August now burned a quixotic blue hale

 

coming down in sheets our theoretical

alter becoming, becoming fatal, plates

 

of pressed dusk salted and patience

spent on lemon rind we were never


any good at waiting, were we?