korcula

I’m looking at three nostrils in the Korcula limestone and feel the hot Adriatic dragon’s breath on my cheek. It burns like balsamic but chills to the marrow of me.
 
I consider riding the dragon out to sea, but only after I eat the cheese, bread, and figs the waiter has placed too carefully before me.
 
Only after I taste the Croate grk grape.
 
Only after I pick black olives and fish for squid with the old couple down the road.
 
Only after I cycle the length of the island and kiss a beautiful man.
 
Only after I fidget, fumble, and forget.
 
Only then will I grab a scaly wing and let him know I’m ready to go,
I’m ready to sing.