Recidivism
I’m seriously addicted
to revisiting
a particular morning
at a particular window,
sipping coffee
from a particular cup.
The light is orange.
Men carry oars
down a road
to where boats
sleep on rocks.
On the horizon
sits a volcano,
on the beach
red sand.
Boats scatter
over the bay,
black beetles.
She rests a hand
on my shoulder.
The air is wine.
It has aged well.