Ava

We wake near a lemon train, my lover lies supine, everything now beyond pain, sunrise on the Levantine, where Cavafy lived and died, making verses to a life, Thessinger loved this terrain, an iron kettle on the fire, lone figures on an empty plain, salt whorls a global fight, swallow thrum yellow skies, she dreams of desert nights, and exhausts the drain, of last night’s wine, the passages she irrigates, but never obtains, an air of early disguise, we move towards our Chicane, we know about this light.