to mark the moving passage
of a salt-sipping tern,
like when some line on the page
is loved, and it's hard to turn.
DAYS
You are blowing as far away
as a white paper sail on the horizon,
as sand dribbled from the fingers of day .
This was your decision.
The pillow is halved by my embrace
at nights. Every day is the worst.
I can feel, humming in the crook of my elbows
the deep V of a warm waist.
There's a song here to the triangular scarf
of a woman wrapping it up.
'Adieujoulard, adieu'
we swore once that we would take the rough
with the smooth. Better to suffer with you.
I sit with crossed hands over drawn-up knees,
foetal as ever, sometimes the sea's blindness
is my own salt. The white sail vanishes .
Merciless the blue sky in its kindness.
Yvonne Sapia
RETURN TO THE SANCTUARY
This is exactly
what you had in mind:
