Aeolus, Tinos
by David Capps
You stream the interior, sway bulbs in restaurants hanging by braided ropes, play in curtains sumptuous with light; in midday siestas there are signs of you: the sound of a ball bouncing away, distant waves rolling in place as flagpoles chime blue and white, sheets pulled close to a branch’s leaf-long fling against the window, a low song-cradled Eucalyptus, echoes of church bells laden in your arms; yet suddenly near, that curious voice wanting to explain itself to itself, before being washed out beneath your tides, I have felt you against my back, in boyhood, when all trees were luminous.
David Capps is a philosophy professor and writer who lives in New Haven, CT.