i.
There’s a place
at the heart of Split where
tiny streets taper
into arterial corners of the brain, enter
the mind’s peristyle, so that
you can see out into the garden
and thick fog
descends over the Palace, heavy
like a moon full of skulls.
ii.
The city is profile
of limestone covered faces,
walls that stare
into the present’s lingering past.
The land where
the Palace continues curves
itself seaward
like a hip into stone, its arc inward
toward a solid womb.
iii.
And blood, not
soil, fuels the earth.
A field of hardened head-stones
crosses into border
of coagulated bones
to form the entrance front.
Outside,
the sun spills red onto rooftops,
a sea of coming ships stains
the horizon wall.
iv.
Olive trees,
(ripe when black, otherwise green)
mark the coast. At times,
symbol of longevity,
the time her salt-filled lips
shaped moons
to allow the fruit, your finger,
to enter,
to swallow the whole sea at once.
v.
Its marketplace
stretches into infinite
parade of slaughtered pilchards.
The scent
at the still of your neck
to which her cheek anchored itself
so often. Over the terrace,
square white sheets flirt
with bent wind.