Vetralla, Lazio
Donkeys stir in the last mist.
A glass jar each,
Federico and I hike through hazelnuts
to where the yellow flowers
flock amidst Etruscan tombs.
Singing soft Frank Ocean
as a grace, I wind
my wrists through grass.
Blooms smear pollen
where my fingers fold.
Federico's hand unfurls
on my back to brace me
when I climb, too high perhaps,
to pick the final few.
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