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if I am nowhere am I everywher
I am talking to her saying our roads
will be all that's left; that our avenues
will turn to altars, set in onyx.
look what we remember of Rome,
all pavements and temples
arranged like vertebrae in dirt
that goes on living, full with prayer;
and as I say this, it occurs to me that in a Mexican bar
in Florence I might disappear
to the streets and run, eyeless
through an eyeless crowd,
(take me, Florence! I am a son among these heartbroken stones,
take me from the marble block lift me out!)
to laugh hysterically; she is pulling me,
her warmth comes breathlessly from the air;
we are foreigners,
we are rain. (I am inventing this,
all of this happened elsewhere, another night)
her face turns to laugh illuminated
and everything else wobbling is blue
and forgotten; lifeboats drawn away
from our bodies that are continents
moving full with rice and squash and sins
named in small homes before saints and fire;
listen. I was not there by the long bar
when everyone turned and pulled us
into the st
Dog Moon Revised please read
June 1st 2005
You know ever since we came to this place, ever since we've moved I've had a bad feeling about those woods. They insist it's just my imagination, maybe it is? I mean it's beautiful here; the countryside is nothing like London. Just rolling hills, meadows, horses. We actually have horses, now back in London the only horses I saw were on carriages.
But, that lasting thought, it lingers, what is just beyond that tree line? Just beyond our property? Why didn't anyone want to buy this beautiful farmhouse? It's almost untouched, the brick is the most beautiful color, and it seems brand new. But the owners seemed eager to leave, my father insists some people just don't like the country, I on the other hand wonder if it was more.
At night sometimes I awake and hear the strangest noises, howls? They couldn't be, wolves in England, ha! That is just unheard of, wolves are extinct here. A coyote most likely, nothing seems un-ordinary, and the horses
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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