They still fish in Lerici. The Gulf
of Poets saw Byron swim and
Shelley's heart refused to burn
on the beach of San Terenzo, but
in October, I left my clothes and key
on a rock and slipped my legs
into the cool, glassy sea. Sailboats
breeze by easily, the ferry to Cinque
Terre leaves four times a day, and
the man at the cafe wants to take me
to dinner in La Spezia. I hold
my breath and float, float.
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