After Marechiare.
Beaming, as full as a coastal lemon for the pot,
I would walk lanes like a vagabond, vagrant,
Stone streets fragrant with nectar-heavy vines;
Sea-ward wares, glistening stares, by alabaster.
I would count gulls with their nabbed scraps,
And hallowed shrines, and ruins, boats, gleeful,
And be in love, as endlessly as the very day;
I would feed stray kits, beneath opal eve-chatter.