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?