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Color of the Sea
The seas are quiet on the map of Italy. I am not. If I plant bulbs,
I would be home. I would oil the porch door hinge, turn on the
back door light for you early—you aren't too late. I want to be
in that place where one sock loses itself, my desktop crowds
with poetry, and I lean far back in my chair, almost tip over. But
now, I roam. Study highway merges, tolls, arrive late.
We've mapped every inch of land.
The monotone waters offer no wake. I wake up into, from, these
thoughts. You are here next to me, only my socks are missing. I
am home, quietly in love, writing about the strade and vie that
lead to Roma during the Rinascimento. The porte welcome
visitors and residents. I spoon seasonal mint gelato into my
poems. We both taste it. We take off our boots at home.
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