In the morning, after sky and cackle
of chickens, after the opening
of this window, some clouds, perched
under a clutch of villas hillside,
a castle and its ruins. Part of me,
the green-heart-of-Italy part, wants
a ruin of my own, a quaint flower box
or two, since the breeze could coax a rose
to blossom at breakfast, my heart right
in the yellow. I’m looking for some terror.
Waiting for a swift to mistake my window
for some heaven, stun itself, yet fly off.
So much hunger for infinities.
So many ways to miss them, too,
the way I miss the very instant prior
to abandonment.
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