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