where growing wheat is golding at the tips
and fields are edged with silver coves
called Myrtleville, Rocky Bay, Nohoval.
The ocean a blue-blue wink in the distance.
Your hand rock-firm around mine.
The sun heats up the courtyard of the inn
at Robert’s Cove, where my namesake roses hang
as dry as paper. I touch the cooked pink
of them, my paper names. Bread breaks open
below your knife to its white soul. Glasses
of dark wine pulse through me
and still I’m thirsty, as if I licked the salty
undersides of little boats anchored in the bay.
They turn like clocks above their restraining ropes,
hitched to the hidden seabed.
After eating, you raise the bay’s tarnished cup
to my lips. I drink from it.