FOREIGN

We've shared this place before-
there are moments, walking at night,
I could believe it. Then
your body turns, you slowly wake, you stare
as if you'd never seen me in your life.

Sour taste of olives and the sea true blue;
October sunlight on the passive ruins.
Questioned by waiters and a begging child
we lack the words for what we'd say-
this line, penned line, this shrunk horizon.

A white stone on a white road,
so innocent it seemed, so purely dead.
Out walking, early noon, you kicked that stone:
saw then what held you still, a world exposed,
as all the insects teemed towards you.
...