A mosquito lands and lingers on my brow.
The dry air hums with pollen, glistening still.
The jealousy and anger — gone for now,
evaporated, lifted by the chill
of gentle breeze, soft-born with eastern dawn
across the vast horizon, hardened sand
and wood, then river, stone, then here — this lawn,
these green iron chairs, this glass held in my hand.
A pebble lodges in my sole — I'm glad
it's there, not in my shoe. Table wine at lunch,
just good enough to drink too much, to add
another glass, another graceless hunch.
Paris holds what home could never keep:
my troupe of misfits, generals, muses — seeped
like chamomile in the teacup, slow, released.