Stories of three islands
you’ve told me, over years
over meals, after quarrels,
light changing the spectrum of your hair
your green eyes, lying on our backs
naked or clothed, driving
through wind, eighteen-wheeler trucks
of produce crates ahead and behind
you saying, I couldn’t live long
far from the ocean
Spring of new and continuing
war, harpsichord crashing
under Verlet’s fingers
I tell you I could not live long
far from your anger
lunar reefed and tidal
bloodred bract from spiked stem
tossing on the ocean
2003