Damon Moore
I am interested in an object
near Porto Covo
named after what it does not have.
A peach tree in this instance.
Swimming strong currents,
you can reach the place
overlooked by an old fort struck upon the mainland,
a prison once back in the day.
Both island and fort are deficient,
since the island has nothing to crop,
and the fort nothing to defend.
We bump up against deficiencies,
an inability to laugh for instance,
a reluctance to discuss poetry
in the presence of that younger person
you were used to writing alongside.
You knew they admired the littleness of flowers
gusting upon cliffs of Porto Covo,
that they never enjoyed a conversation more
and swam the strong currents,
a person you knew, you now know less well,
who looked across to Peach Tree island,
never regretting it had peach trees once,
and the closest to that landmass you ever got.