Untitled Little Old Emotional Poem

                                   in RI

 No one will blame me
 on the whispering shore
 for lingering so long
 near your small rose island.

   
         Bees' slow honey
 is the measure of summer;
 morning and sundown,
 by that rose double-arch.

   
         And my tongue's dark island
 leaves a late russet shadow –
 dry relic of the voyage,
 our lips' broken compass.