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

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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