Poems

Double Takes

In a mix-up between the Cornouaille and Cornwall,
I ask in French and English if the ends of Earth

are bound to lust, a doubling of ells, confusion
of the double-u, azimuth wit from east and west,

marshmallow and halawa. I resemble these remarks. Literal
littoral at low tide is a lucid afternoon from which

I could recover as an analysand, a final hunch for
a linguistic turn, the projection I need to lean into my active

self-sabotage, my refusal to order the salicorne digestif.
I sketch at the buvette. I explain I do not use French as pretense.

I want to observe the changing light in the towns, across the valleys,
shadowing down July evenings, their pinks moving to mauve,

their mauves to dirty blue, dirty blue to grey. The smoked days
and burnt ends of papiers d’Arménie, remembered wars, Morse, remorse.


Ventimiglia Eclogue
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