c. 15
The old burgundy curtain
since the 80s had siesta
of Fleming, and temper
of cobwebbed ceiling
corners, and near, a
cenotaph of scattered
stout gauze bags. Cheers
to poaching tea crofter said.
Tomasello Winery—a taste
for being, not for sovereignty.
c. 16
Niche night nuisance;
métier for amuse.
c. 17
We went to the pike’s market,
an honor wagon. There was
low talk from the Haitian workers
behind the blueberry stand
against a picket trellis. Their
exchange was mostly French,
spoken slow.
Quarante-quatre manquer.
The fruit was nowhere
near ripe. I carped of the
language barrier in town.
