the shores of Ischia are calling
that city of flour and salt
out beyond the waterfront
the waves breaking
over a song


My grandfather told us about the war once
his grit voice, the thin of him
rocking in the grey recliner
next to a brass lamp you could touch to turn on
one tap and it would illuminate the man
I only remember smiling that one night


the donut shop in my old neighborhood is closing
where we showed up so late that morning
out from under covers, walking under autumn trees
the first morning of finding you again


he’s drooling on the pillow I just washed
a leg twitching, spread out on the couch
after the car ride home from anywhere
maybe dreaming of the cheese sauce
I let him let him lick from my finger


how to turn 30:
stay up until 2am comparing mortgage rates
price out millenial van living
submit application for 10-day silent retreat
book solo trip to Venice
tell your mother ‘no’
bring home twin tabbies
fail at doing one single pullup
re-read Harry Potter
buy cream for the skin rash


estate sale —
a white and blue uniform
hangs in the closet
still starched but not as vibrant
as those old days on the water


out on the west highway
I pass a hawk on a wire
for years, he’s been there
statued and watching
as I drive home and back again
of course it’s not the same hawk
but what do I know of birds?