By Jonathan Aaron
From his collection entitled Corridor
Dozens of burning, fish-shaped clouds dove for the horizon,
determined to make more of an already explosive sunset.
The sea gave the shore another hearty slap on the back.
Crickets started singing in the dry grass beyond the wide-open door.
The day's last excursion boat glided past the window, white as a gull.
We were about to sit down around the kitchen table
and serve ourselves from a hot bowl those little red potatoes
the whole island survived on during the war.