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.
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