In Conca dei Marini, I visit
our favorite café at the water's edge,
order a glass of verdicchio,
watch light crystals play among the waves,
feel the breeze flirt with the hem
of my skirt, my hair. I remember
the word culaccino – the water mark
left by a glass sweating with cold
in the sun – and wonder how long
it will take the ring to disappear.
First published in Black Poppy Review
First published in Black Poppy Review
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