When the day’s heat
bakes our clothes,

when our patience crumbles
with monuments and ruins,

we’ll desert history
to study our own lives

through sea salt, lemons, anchovies.
White grapes and wine.

All shades of blue
on the Ligurian. We’ll stagger

from the train wanting
resuscitation, and find it

in the coast, grains of sand.
In chiaroscuro and carugi.

We’ll keep time, then, by nothing
but nail-notch, a cut

in dimpled rinds. We’ll find
a scent to make us want to live:

sun-fed, needy.
Flesh at the point of breaking.

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