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.