Arthur,
Dead
Upon this slope of
Mt. Etna
a rocky haze of
black dust, lust
for life at closing
time; sublime,
the baroque gesture
beckoned
but trees just
grow, regardless.
Every moment, after
a certain age,
can either be a
consummation or
a capitulation,
again, to time.
I’ll never love
enough to cover up
this hole Aeolus
blew into my loosen-
ed Tooth—I never
did make my peace
, either, with the
goddess at Erice. I lost
all my emotional
equilibrium
and cried and cried
and cried and cried
“Don’t beat me
anymore, my mommy.”
I’ve learned too
many lessons now
to give it up.
10/11/2013
Etna/Catania
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