Petals signal
the report held
by nectar
until hummingbird comes
to take it all down.
**
The latest jolt along the nearby fault
shakes many of the photos and paintings
to crooked, lines faulted to disarray, breath holding,
tentatively waiting for a second, a tremor at least,
though neither come to grant that odd relief—
in the moment held, we draw together, wide-eyed,
then part with a sigh,
the collective stretch to straighten again
that which we still believe
we have control of.
**
—To Rome
Passing date-lines in the dark of night
speak of little more than discomfort, fatigue,
until the barest hint of blueing in the blackness
and a soft spread of ribboned pink
that lifts the slowly lightening sky
to reveal a vast range of clouds
beneath which Europe sleeps.
**
A poet speaks of knowing the self
as the galaxy might know it, before
notions of birth, before definitions
crimp being’s random edges.
First thoughts of this, of course
take wing; but truth be known,
these feet find comfort most surely
on the ground,
which at any rate might well be
where the galaxy sees us too,
along with the ants, the roaches
and other beings gravity burdens.
**
Life lessons, learned over local wines,
both red and white: dust is a fool’s worry,
settling only on those who are still.
**
—Sicily
The coastline runs generally north-south,
a “W” opening eastward toward Italy’s boot,
away from an unseen Etna. From here though,
two small volcanos, unmistakably so, and,
two rather suspicious mounds.
And although, from time to time,
the unseen Etna spews smoked reports,
locals feign disinterest.
**
—Taormina
Upon arrival, Etna, of course, a shapely shadow
of grey darkness parting broken clouds and plumes.
But, after all, just a distant passing freeway visage.
The strongest roadside impression is a tangled mass
of exposed lava. Sicily: lava. Well yes, but,
the deeper migration is the push and call, the shift
and the rise of plates: continents, meet here,
mark here:
on the crests looking out, looking down,
the Ionian Sea, the upward claw, some eight-hundred feet
of unrelenting green
and on the waters’ surge, the stories,
of shattered dreams, of landed voice, of scattered
but continuous song.
**
Native to Italy, the Stone Pine forms canopies,
bent and forked branches umbrella
in bunches of bi-needled fascicles
and cones,
the one aside our patio hosting climbing vines
and dangling tendrils—silent chimes that bounce
on the rush of the sea’s breezes, puzzle the ears,
please the eyes.
**
The center of Sicily is hills and rock, mounds
and bluffs; promontories dominate rolls of green,
scattered stretches of dirt-bound brush and lazy valleys:
citrus, olives, almonds; stone fencing and homes;
cattle and sheep.
A joyous drive from Catania in the east,
to the Valley of Temples, on the southern shore,
where notions of hours, stories of miles, fall silent.
Centuries of remnants of myriads of dreams
of multiple peoples, kept in the watch of unchanging
hills. The reaching limbs of ancient trees still listening.
The barely whispered wishes of lichen covered stone.
**
Buddha’s name finds my lips
on the pre-dawn streets of Matera.
Pigeons flutter up from the stones.
It’s not so much being Buddhist,
I’m thinking, as living deliberate the breath
that burns from beneath the soles of the feet.
**
—On the way to Lecce
a plateau we’re told,
crossing from Alberobello, over the boot
to the instep, half to toe, half to heel.
Cultivated fields, straight walls,
never-depleted stones.
Here the vines, there the trees,
grapes, olives, muscled trunks,
doubled and twisted and ridged
with years.
Promised cherries, not seen,
neither yet the sea.
But that dark grey bird, again,
white under-wing and tail, again,
just there, over the fields,
that bird again.
**
—Lecce
The moon is less generous at this hour.
Shadows cast about from street lamps, greetings
exchange in lowered tones, all in deference
to some unspoken order of things,
**
Legs stretched out
in a way that eases a sore knee,
pen raised above a blank page,
under a mind with nothing more to say
than just that, the effort to reach beyond
such un-telling moments
simply falling right into them.
Unable to gain traction enough
to figure into play some imagined future,
I’ve the sneaky suspicion
I’m experiencing now.
**
—The courtyard in Sorrento
Where do haiku hide
and why does the pen tip point,
asking the flowers
on the trellis on the wall,
the vines, the petals, the leaves?
**
—Naples-1
Our relation to the entirety of the world
around us: immediacy, intimacy, such that
it simply is—immanent, taken for granted, taken as.
Life-death, sure. Ideas. But more so,
the moments’ movements across the page.
The answer living gives of itself at work
among the beings and things that make it
what it is.
**
—Naples-2
And then, outside, a bird.
Above the thrum of air-conditioning,
over the workmen’s determined thumps,
amid scattered voices and scooter noise,
a bird whistles—not chirping, but whistling
in the cavernous, cobblestone-floored canyon
of the inner courtyard of multi-residence buildings.
In old Napoli, a single bird whistles, and we all
raise our heads
to hear more.
**
The empty bowl still holds the chill of cold milk,
now gone. Fingers wrap
beneath and along smoothed curvature,
touch
the raised bead at the base, thumb crooking
the upper rim,
lingering satisfaction unwilling
to let go.
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