Poetry

The starlings are nesting/
in the walls and the harvest is/
half-finished. I have not/
lost my mind.

They hand me Rubaeus, red/ as a daquiri, watching to be proven right. I sip/ and smile, hops curling my tongue inward/

Me and Lionel both like no-nonsense north German/ beers; we like to think ourselves stony-faced fishermen on harsh// Baltic Sea beaches.