Our high-speed hydrofoil is late. We wait in the islandâ€™s worst places, Aeolian churches. Bartholomew, the aging patron saint, drapes his flayed skin over one arm, a sommelier or thespian. Harrowing renders us raw, unclods soil and frees a captive field. The boatman hectors lesbians, insists on learning where they swim. Iâ€™m glad you donâ€™t understand the Italian that I barely can. Thereâ€™s nowhere on this island that doesnâ€™t turn us more against ourselves or one anotherâ€” too many days in paradise for minds like ours.