Take Messina: you’d be impressed and even sad
that I remember. The crag of mottled faces
the rocks made like old pensioners in back pages
of a magazine. The light as bright as dentistry.
In Messina you’re alone‚ available‚ the youth
in your face still rising. As if there’ll be no end
to youth and solitude‚ the sea below Messina
answers: solitude is beauty‚ even after you
get cold‚ go back to the hotel‚ and light
begins to change‚ to fade‚ at each stage resonant.
Messina? I have never been. You told the story
quickly when I loved you; now here it is
exactly as you left it‚ its old stone faces
alternately old and then like children‚ elated by a fallen tooth.
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