Stone pines somehow grow
Out of concrete bridges
On the outskirts of Milan and
Sway languidly for our approach,
But only after Lecco
Does the metallic southern
Rail air open up, everything
Ahead prepared, everything
Behind collapsed.

We have the pine and palm
And for a week the pre-Alpine,
All above the fortified city
With its post office never open,
No one expecting anything anyway.

Each morning a double golden,
Each sunset mountain micro-climate
Reflecting the rash heating up
Her wrist after a cemetery
Graze back at the Famedio.

Let the risotto be quiet a while,
Unfold yourself from the news,
Make fewer memories, maim
Even less. To read while
Crouching beneath extinction’s
Sedimentary arc: as the future
Recedes the past rushes in
To lap up any recollection
At the lip of the lake.

The last night the same
As any other in the Midwest,
Anxious, misty and cool (but
For those black summer truffles).
To wonder what you would do
With one more day: follow
A new sat-nav or trace
Honeysuckle up the Grigna?

Only with someone preordained
Who has always existed
Can we battle love and all
Of its opponents, can we
Sprain an ankle on a curve
Of the Viandante and see
How it is not two centers
But the same center now.

Tagged ,


Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: