the frigid january air snaps at what skin is exposed
to the grey sun—all clouds, no sky. the mediterranian waves bite
the boardwalk planks and the black rocky coast, all salty
spittle and angry roars, crashing, crashing.
this is the place where poseidon becomes neptune,
simultaneous yet never overlapping.
with my black boots unsteady on the cold wet rocks,
arms stretched out toward the tip of italy, black coat whipping in the gale,
i know that this
is how mortals knew they were mortals.
the old god shrieks his rage at the modern city lights, still crashing, crashing,
and the skin of my fingertips prickles blue with the sea cold.
“forgive me,” i beg him.
“i have to go.”
back to the paved roads, away from the slick and treacherous fury,
up two blocks past old worn street signs, hands pushed in damp
coat pockets to evict the cold settling in my blood.
inside the old cement hotel, there is no crashing—just
the soft breathing of the front desk clerk dozing before his shift ends
and the squelch of my boots on the marble floor.