The Rhythm of Things
The cypress trees in Italy are slow
metronomes keeping time with the
wind—reaching for the hand of a new
lover, always retreating back to proper
posture. Backward steps. Repeat.
Two weeks—travelers tattooed
by different guns, with the same ink.
The decay of life—inverted.
Here, flesh comes after bone.
The olive trees have started to blossom.
The mulberry tree, solid in the image of Ovid,
warning about suicide by consumption,
does not waver. The berries move with wind,
but they do not dance. Not at all
flexible bones, their view of Umbria
remains. After 104 bombings in Terni,
alone in one year—the trees on the hillside
sacrifice for their roots. But that cypress
in the wind, what a blessing, depending,
to see an extra four feet
in either direction.
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