I write you a letter I will never mail. Thin opiated words flare up off the paper. I tell myself I wouldn't, but it is easier to forget. The first fingers of cold air have closed over the lake. Now you have entered me again and overturned this evening lit it up in fine sadness and memory. The moon, that luminous spittle, spat by the gods into the sky draws me closer to the Mediterannean surface
like the light of a fisherman's lamp. Bazouki notes one splashed out to us from island harbour. Strong back oars sun reflected water bent about to strike the surface again. Water, if clear fathoms could only hold me, but the net sweeps in and gleans from me weather beaten faces quietly reflecting that I'm familiar.