Jeffrey Alfier
Campomarino, Where the Sea Begins
I could summon a final Fernet-Branca
before loosening my tie for a walk home
in the warm, moon-shot night, my fedora tilted
back on my sweaty brow, luckier than the man
one stool over, his peasant pockets that buy
nothing but advice to go home, an empty glass
at arm’s length, a demand not followed by supply,
the dark eyes that say, this is all I’ve come for.
Why must midnight clocks wear that deadpan
glare, the hard rhyme of hour and minute
against the day’s unraveling hem, tomorrow
forecasting its own bitter cure, the bar’s shelves
restocked before the city’s old wake early to pray
the Magnificat, night birds over their streets
where a woman’s glance is culled from shadow,
a loss of words that almost burns the tongue.