You forget
it’s an island
until you leave
opening
a yawn of air
a sleep of sea
between you.

Nothing here
no bay or beach
that waits
for history’s footprint
yet I
discovered them all
colonised by a glance
as the car crested the rise
over the biscuit colour
of these summer hills

and past
the tilted graveyards
seemingly comfortable
as old beds
where long-living
restless turning
leaves
the body’s furrow.

And in leaving
all things are folded small
- you know what airlines are -

Like I said
you forget
she’s an island
until you try to leave
opening
more than a reach of arms
between you.

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