Il Tuono

Vetralla

Pinta the dog cowers to my calves.
Cloud shadow leans
over tomatoes in their neat cane rows.
Mauro and I gave hours,
and plead against hail.

San Giovanni

Vetralla

Donkeys stir in the last mist.
A jar each,
Federico and I hike through hazelnuts
to the Etruscan tombs.
Some yellow flowers appear.
Singing quiet Frank Ocean
as a breach, I wind my wrists through grass.
Blooms smear pollen
where my fingers crease.
Federico's hand spread on my back
holds me when I climb,
too high maybe, to pick the final few.

The Hot Hours

6.7.15

Viterbo

Reduced to tiny thirsty dunes
raised red where somehow painless
they punctured.
Zanzare, aragne, climbers
from little dirt structures I disturbed
to tug lamb's-quarters from spiral zucchini.
        Chugging resounds from the cistern.
Between water, hot briefly from pipes in sun
weaning fresh sluices of dirt and some blood
from my legs, I want it to pound.

Left clean to drape indoors and wait,
white curtains drawn as seams to stay
the heat, all afternoon.  My fingers
hover over spots to gnaw.
My ankles lose their skin.