Canet de Mar
From the ruffled awning of a xiringuito
we sniff the brine-slaked air, chew salty strips
of calamari, wash them down
with tinto de verano.
The waves are tiny now, but over time
have worn hard shingle-stone to russet sand.
Each grain is round, hard on the feet
like a marble, like a planet.
The black iron balcony
is strong enough to hold our weight,
plus cheese and olives, a bottle of Estrella,
glass of wine. Facing us,
gray windows, dust on plants and sills.
I could almost reach across the street
and feel the stucco walls that face us
and rub the smudge off of my fingertips.
- Halls and Alleys
With dusk, the alleys fill with shadows
and words in Catalan float up—
a mother calls her child to bed, a boy
pleads with his little mutt.
I put my beer down in the darkness
and sense the wash of your strong pulse:
through halls a thousand miles long,
the beat of your surf-stubbornness.
About the Author
David Salner has worked as iron ore miner, steelworker, machinist, bus driver, cab driver, longshoreman, teacher, baseball usher, and librarian. His writing appears in recent issues of The Threepenny Review, Salmagundi, Beloit Poetry Journal, North American Review, Nashville Review, and many other magazines. He is the author of Blue Morning Light (2016, Pond Road Press).