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.