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Split, Croatia: Monografije Otvaranja, 2018




Three tongues in your mouth,

in parallel, peristil, plave-blue pearl.


Each calls from the sea

like a shell to the ear.


          The old white stone

          is as alive as we

          are led to it.


There is a language in me that wants

to be mine but won’t come easy.


A thrum in the autumn air and a word

in the heart in the poem.


          Stacked and narrow

          secret ways, strung

          with sleeping flags.


Pulled toward a perception we know

and want but won’t yet say,


we move images through air,

no border guard to search them.


          To love is a skill,

          and to name it a verse.

          To sustain it, a craft.


From the word, skillful or versed

as in the craft of making


from nothing

a way.


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