The shop was open
and I stood in line
waiting for my turn
to be brave,
to eat.

First, darkly oiled
vegetables and
fifty
years of history.
Then,
brining my palate
in your cousin’s
specious crumbs.
Now, glycerin-lipped,
consuming stolen spice
and the arms of your queen.

I return to you.
Soft smell
over still water,
rough beneath
the misty coven.
Dark grass,
greened with time’s
shears
and hearty lovers
of petal and stamen.

Stepping across
swans and bridges
for the syncopated sounds
of new lips
indistinct above
cobbled bones.

Escalating chronology
and the active
texture of each wall
travels with me,
like a fastidious girl
looking for escape.

Freedom from you
where I left myself,
my continental love affair.
Death here,
better than life elsewhere
rooted in the open chalk
outlined along a northern route.

I was here once.