Sardinia

A cold enough ocean to puff
breath out into squeals.
No sand but pebbles and wine—
soft pink in a thick glass tumbler.

At night you bought white
almond taffy by the pound,
stuck to the sides
of a paper bag and you folded

yourself into the city’s stone wall,
back pressed against a notch
left open for archers. You read
with sweet hands

so that now the whole trip
is sugar and cold water,
even though there must
have been a hotel, meals

worth remembering:
salty ham and hard cheese.
But blue does that—overtakes.

Years ago, you were nothing
but a mouth and wave.