for hank

The poster promised fifteen ports in fourteen days
on turquoise waters north of Egypt.
Touching from the right side on an angle leaned the stones
of Threave tower on the Dee,
mute these seven centuries
in milkweed and flower;

“you leave New York when the ribbon breaks free”
she said while stapling a credit card receipt;

Above her head a wide field split the hills
in Abruzzi grass;
a square of bright Italian light
shone through the hole to form a chapel;

Here the feet are rough; they have no shoes;
this is where i will begin my book.

© Jeff Thomas 2009