Claypot wine that brimspills yellow dusksongs
soot bluffsides, crushed oil of stone path sunlight
melia with white tongues like oracles:
despite his temples grey with seashells
these he promised her.
And the pottery sky stained blue with stamen and pistil.
And the pollen of his skin contracted for the next morning.
Seabirds comet falling below the dark water disappear now
a sign as her ship tacks the waves
main sail like a tapestry drape:
she knows now:
later he’ll still open window listen past midnight,
after a pension stair steep and narrow lean
sky like contact paper: damp night smells
temple bells that chime imprecise hours
a car alarm, a nightclub throb along the waterfront:
he’ll hear the hollow, moist husk
of orange grove breathing he misses:
he’ll follow a fly buzz into gone:
he’ll feel her thigh’s weight when
he barely wakes at five the next morning
vague as the scent and shades of lilac blooms.
She should have known, even without a gift then
lips still trusted, his love would never turn
to a cur’s growl of drunkenness sorrow.
She should have known that look like mid-day lavender fog
like winter washing balcony draped
like minnow sliver water fragility
like the clarity of not knowing
would have always been hers.
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