John Martone

Homelands

Tufo
2019
 My thanks to Maria Laura Valente
and John Levy for their help,
and to Mark Young for publishing
some of the visual work in Otoliths.

Homelands
Copyright © 2019 John Martone
Tufo
johnmartone@gmail.com
Homelands
We perish because we cannot join
the beginning to the end.

— Alcmaeōn of Croton

Et ferruginea (Charon) subvectat corpora

cymba. Aen. 6.303. Chi non sente che
questo subvectat è continuativo, e indica
costume di subvehere tuttodì —

— Leopardi
 clay pot
an ancient
world shattered
what you are

~5~
il coccio
dopo l’io
cocci

~6~
I pick up shards
one after another
it’s a path

~7~
tufa
at peace
within

~8~
a crust
of bread

the last
apple

plenty

~9~
old church —
the wood kneelers
uncushioned

~ 10 ~
the nave
full of
gossip

~ 11 ~
old men in black suits
summer days

mourning gone
way beyond sorrow

~ 12 ~
lost that small
crucifix with

its inner
compartment

red thread
from mom

~ 13 ~
 nostalgia

maybe if I’d
stayed and bought

some cigarettes
and a coffee

~ 14 ~
bilocation

you don’t know —

I’m there today

a good five
thousand miles

sable-pointed
water-color
cypresses

~ 15 ~
frieze
they’re all working in stone

~ 16 ~
avo
he laid bricks and made wine

~ 17 ~
homeland

were
words
earth

~ 18 ~
third-person singular
he throws up a lean-to of words for shelter

~ 19 ~
third-person singular
the road to Emmaus

~ 20 ~
of course it won’t
come together
yourself being broken

~ 21 ~
I don’t understand
I don’t understand

that bird outside

the north window

~ 22 ~
memory
an angel descends from the skylight

~ 23 ~
calluses
his calluses good fingerprints

~ 24 ~
his visual cortex
the land of the dead

~ 25 ~
Matera —
an open door
their only light

~ 26 ~
 dream

wearing all manner of amulets

speaking in whispers
yourself among them

~ 27 ~
anything but water’s folly

~ 28 ~
daybreak
a small room ripens
in the swelling light

~ 29 ~
Alzheimer’s
my fortune teller rubbing her forehead

~ 30 ~
folding a paper
ever smaller
forgetting

~ 31 ~
the next street over’s another world

~ 32 ~
relic —
a stray

thread’s
someone

~ 33 ~
the other world
fits in a small
cedar box

~ 34 ~
at 93 —
onion skin
over flesh become clay

~ 35 ~
the shovel turns up
a treasure of beads
those white larvae

~ 36 ~
my sister’s dark hair
under sunday’s white veil
snow in the garden

~ 37 ~
house wren
my house front

~ 38 ~
boarding house
my pine full
of starlings

~ 39 ~
novitiate
echoing — empty —

art nouveau
stations of the cross

~ 40 ~
it’s just like
the old days

dusting the relics

on his dresser

~ 41 ~
warmth

the bread
fitting
your hands

~ 42 ~
morning’s my transparent bread

~ 43 ~
Il sasso

their bread’s textures—

from crust to light

center under
the mouth’s roof—home

~ 44 ~
I slice garlic
thinly and close
my pocket knife

~ 45 ~
a small glass
of water
by the coffee

a small glass
of water
by the wine

~ 46 ~
 import

I open my knife
to free a sheep’s cheese
from plastic

~ 47 ~
a bread crust
wine dregs

fingers
and lips

~ 48 ~
figs
in a cloth
in his pocket

~ 49 ~
the empty
places

also
partake

~ 50 ~
typewriter
in its case

all these years —

you get the idea

~ 51 ~
 vecchiaia
going to be
more mistakes

now till that

one isn’t

~ 52 ~
 now more than ever it seems rich to die

and to think
I never

thought I’d reach

twenty six

~ 53 ~
will I
make 80?

and how will

the lace-leaf look?

~ 54 ~
an old life jacket
back of the closet throws me
overboard again

~ 55 ~
turning cartwheels
in our old movie
how medieval

~ 56 ~
closet’s otherwise
forgotten papers
half mouse-eaten

~ 57 ~
buy a suit
for them to
put you in

~ 58 ~
— that flicker of
after-rain

on my lace-leaf
light years hence

~ 59 ~
how on earth
a chestnut tree
in my clay pot

~ 60 ~
the old
forever speaking the secret Italian of childhood

~ 61 ~
piccolo zio —
con il suo abito nero
provo a vestirmi

~ 62 ~
favola
l’abito di quella donna addesso stracci

~ 63 ~
all
at once

dews
light up

~ 64 ~
from lowered fingers
lettuce seeds fall
out of touch too

~ 65 ~
spring
the white blanket
in tatters

~ 66 ~
spring comes
with so

much to
give up

~ 67 ~
yes others
have done better

but you too

can let go

~ 68 ~
 the rope trick, finally

you’re already there when you let go

when you let go you’re already there

~ 69 ~
when I’ve
nothing left

the weather
turns warm

~ 70 ~
 code
a fence-
wire’s bright
binary dews

~ 71 ~
SNPs

these
little

stretches
words

oddly
yours

~ 72 ~
then one morning
grief suddenly

gone it’s a clean

and empty room

~ 73 ~
get
down
to

one
room
then

step
out
side

~ 74 ~
 Saigon, Assisi …

all the beautiful

places I’ve gone alone
and nobody now

~ 75 ~
angels
or floaters

morning
flies by

~ 76 ~
optical
incidents

such as these
then you’re gone

~ 77 ~
Campania
a field of sun on my bed

~ 78 ~
dreaming —

a tall ship
fully rigged

just beyond
that bend in the road

~ 79 ~
dreaming —

I want to rent
a room in this village
I don’t know its name

~ 80 ~
sailboat —
the pocket

knife’s blade
half-folded

~ 81 ~
the city rose
above her grave —

such dimensions
that goddess

~ 82 ~
homeland
go back when

and look up
every word

~ 83 ~
 equinox

still
sleepy

spring
today

~ 84 ~
Rebekah’s

shiny new
keyring

vernal
equinox

~ 85 ~
 dictation

my hands
light up
with pain

~ 86 ~
human —
earth’s

finger
print

~ 88 ~
 for Claudia

evenings
with music
and Rimbaud’s
colorful
vowels

~ 89 ~
 lighthouse

coffee cup atop

a stack of books
cloudy day

~ 90 ~
imaginary things
such as stone naves
and stained glass

~ 91 ~
a mote —
where I

am meant
to be

~ 92 ~
wool cap
folding knife
toothless

~ 93 ~
do what
you want

old man
— what’s that?

~ 94 ~
feeling

the way
others

feel at
your age

~ 95 ~
collapse

isn’t it
classical

~ 96 ~
early
as you rise —
spider-silk

~ 97 ~
spider silk
caught in sun

longer than
all I’ve done

~ 98 ~
patch of
blue wall
you thought

it was
the sky

~ 99 ~
how the child
felt each day

starting out
bright and clean —

~ 100 ~
I’ll bury
this rabbit now
the crow’s done

~ 101 ~
rigor mortis
this rabbit
still running

~ 102 ~
the shovel’s
shadow

joined
to mine

~ 103 ~
contagion

though only my shovel

touched the dead rabbit

buried now
I wash my hands

~ 104 ~
lenten
lentils

and bread
wineless

plan my
garden

~ 105 ~
wire fence
the light
snags on you

~ 106 ~
one thing
sunlight
and stone

~ 107 ~
to think light’s come
all that way
to leave you behind

~ 108 ~
winter-shattered
my dear clay pot’s
really something now

~ 109 ~
minim

turns to
minim

see it
happen

~ 110 ~
smaller still
than it is
little flower

~ 111 ~
eggplant nurslings
planted out —

the veins
of pop’s hands

~ 112 ~
I let the unpleasant woman
sell me a hat that’s too small

~ 113 ~
the old man
never meant

to grow a beard
no he just

let himself go
among the sparrows

~ 114 ~
the kitchen garden
greening up

whether or not
you want to

~ 115 ~
bright day —
old friend
no one

~ 116 ~
in the middle
of his prayers

a good
night’s sleep

~ 117 ~
all day
by the light

of your last
night’s dream

~ 118 ~
watching them gather
straw for nests —
what you’re doing

~ 119 ~
the lace-leaf maple’s abundance of faces
the grackle’s chatter full of words

~ 120 ~
hands curl
to a hoe
by nature

~ 121 ~
occipital
curve of my shovel’s blade

~ 122 ~
my instep pushes the shovel home

~ 123 ~
archaic torso —
the torque of his
shoveling

~ 124 ~
D—
my shovel’s grip

— they’re not dead

~ 125 ~
having no words
for pick and shovel
he digs

~ 126 ~
fig tree —
the old man’s word
or a child’s

~ 127 ~
quell’esule
fin dai tempi del grembo —
com’è vecchio!

~ 128 ~
il senzatetto
l’esule l’emigrante …
è primavera

~ 129 ~
viola da gamba
un campo ondulante
sotto la nebbia

~ 130 ~
fig tree
in a clay pot

he’s forgotten
how to talk

~ 131 ~
flooded fields the color of caravan windows

~ 132 ~
Two Years
Before the Mast

above his bed

on that island

~ 133 ~
table and chair
at attic window

transparent
and empty

miraculous
city
awaiting

~ 134 ~
April
the market
surrounded by hills

~ 135 ~
closing a book of verbs he rises from the table

~ 136 ~
inside —
you were a greenhouse inside

~ 137 ~
decided against
a bigger place

went and bought

a pocket knife

~ 138 ~
 ex voto
a slip of paper my homeland

~ 139 ~
the last red thread in an empty dresser

~ 140 ~
signatures sewn
red leather cover

minature
Neapolis

~ 141 ~
pear trees
flower outside
the subsidized housing

~ 142 ~
singing
a niche high up in the wall St. Cecilia

~ 143 ~
birds too still
half-asleep
singing

~ 144 ~
seeing me get out of bed a robin flies off

~ 145 ~
sun at this angle
the dust lights up

~ 146 ~
stratus clouds
all the years
in their cedar chest

~ 147 ~
a corner
of the tin doll house
scratched her

~ 148 ~
stone facades —
fountain at center
invisible people

~ 149 ~
fountain
I like
to listen too

~ 150 ~
waiting we sit
around the fountain
part of it

~ 151 ~
1976
seized by a flowering horsechestnut tree

~ 152 ~
 St. James NY

early morning
ancient red tractor
cold as the dew

~ 153 ~

Melville NY, 1970

hard rolls buttered

clouds from coffee and breath
rise in a field

~ 154 ~
Johnny F’s bullfrog
in a galvanized pail
the house with dutch doors

~ 155 ~
half-dollar turtles
and plastic
tropical islands —

be sure to
wash your hands

~ 156 ~
garden toad
in a window-well
we know where

~ 157 ~
I unfold
a cardboard box
the shape of my house

~ 158 ~
grotto
resembling a geode —
the other half

~ 159 ~
the span
of that footbridge

a finger
over the lips

~ 160 ~
rabbit then
mourning dove

come to my
garden frame

the same
gray in me

~ 161 ~
Morandi’s bottles
in a book
somewhere here

~ 162 ~
thought you
were going to
did you

~ 163 ~
art
the lost art

~ 164 ~
forsythia today

~ 165 ~
the laundromat tonight —
Italian Grammar

~ 166 ~
rosettes
centered

in pots
to start

all my
capers

~ 167 ~
early spring’s
leafless lace-leaf

Donatello’s
Magdalene

~ 168 ~
the leafing-out
waves goodbye to
second-floor windows

~ 169 ~
landscape
you’re somewhere
heading somewhere else

~ 170 ~
another journey
alone now
that one

~ 171 ~
great white clouds cross an invisible line

~ 172 ~
the hem
again

~ 173 ~
paging back and forth
lost in the woods

~ 174 ~
magnolia color sky at dusk
(the great magnolia
has opened)

~ 175 ~
garden frame
I dig up a bit of
landscape myself

~ 176 ~
doesn’t take much light to blind you

~ 177 ~
bare branches
piled up
an alphabet

~ 178 ~
neighborhood ­—

snail shells
in a cinder

block’s
hollow

~ 179 ~
a long road
to accept
going nowhere

~ 180 ~
the larvae curled-up
safe where they are

till you with your shovel

a force of nature

~ 181 ~
living now
to take in
my house
falling down
around me

~ 182 ~
wearing dews
my lace-leaf maple
unshaken

~ 183 ~
old man —
the irises
taller each year

~ 184 ~
old immigrant
come to this room
from that room

can’t remember
what came before

~ 185 ~
axis mundi
bend at the knees to lift
this bundled fig tree

~ 186 ~
a grackle chooses
that straw then this
this

~ 187 ~
chattering
children walk by

it all goes
unfinished

~ 188 ~
such wind
the lemon trees’
leaves grow large

~ 189 ~
the morning after
daylong gardening
a body turns in bed

~ 190 ~
had

lost
track

of
earth

~ 191 ~
container
gardening

~ 192 ~
spring
the chain fence green again

~ 193 ~
the growing
tree takes in
a wire fence

~ 194 ~
tomato stakes
to care for the curve
of space-time

~ 195 ~
pilgrimage —
his garden
coming along

~ 196 ~
10 a.m.
you need more
tomato stakes

~ 197 ~
detail work
a fine-tip brush

from the water colors

for hand-pollination

~ 198 ~
hand pollinator —
although no
compound

eyes at least
bifocals

~ 199 ~
 la smorfia

painting
by numbers

your dream
returns

~ 200 ~
recursive —
the branch grows

roots where it
touches earth

~ 201 ~
 (the child)

I’ve done it!

the fig tree cutting’s
green buds open

~ 202 ~
feeling your way
in the dark

finally see
you’re a root

~ 203 ~
this quiet —
the sky’s up
to something

~ 204 ~
thunder
then drenching

his garden
as never

~ 205 ~
rain and chill
curled up in their bed
green beans sprout

~ 206 ~
geometry problem —
derive the pea flower’s
form from rain

~ 207 ~
Scarlatti
can’t keep up with the rain

~ 208 ~
April —
the polite
umbrellas

~ 209 ~
hostas
I’d rather hydrangeas

~ 210 ~
sailor’s knot
the sun through that cloud

~ 211 ~
yesterday’s downpour
the silence today

~ 212 ~
after the chainsaw
I pick lettuce for lunch

~ 213 ~
more garden stakes
than I’ll ever need
these maple limbs

~ 214 ~
cutting tree limbs
those bright paths
after rain

~ 215 ~
a stack
of cordwood

the thought
of friends

~ 216 ~
 tabernacle
I draw a bucket
of rain water
then cover the barrel

~ 217 ~
April 17
Benedict Joseph Labre
my shoe’s sole splits off

~ 218 ~
I dig out an azalea that wasn’t hardy

~ 219 ~
 Ovid, Metem. iii

ancient incisors
planted a thumb’s depth
my garlic

~ 220 ~
invisible mourning doves rest in the mulch

~ 221 ~
those phrases again —
the bird’s name
escapes me

~ 222 ~
lamp
a willow’s first green in its own light

~ 223 ~
dopo la pioggia
nell’erba verdeggiante
un senzatetto

~ 224 ~
someone
homeless

in every
body

~ 225 ~
quei racconti
tante tegole chiare
dopo la pioggia

~ 226 ~
venerdì santo
gli uccelli cacciano
nella paglia

~ 227 ~
a shade off
the cardinal rests
in my lace-leaf maple

~ 228 ~
a last cold blast —
magnolia petals
in the violets

~ 229 ~
hyacinth everyone
more or less more or less
everyone hyacinth

more or less everyone

hyacinth hyacinth
everyone more or less

hyacinth more or less

everyone hyacinth
more or less everyone

~ 230 ~
lilacs —
now less
to say

~ 231 ~
robin’s egg
I’m three-feet tall

~ 232 ~
squash seeds
soaked till they’re
a child’s fingerprints

~ 233 ~
space is curved
my garden’s bib lettuce
fills out

~ 234 ~
my tomato vine
blossoms amid
the shooting stars

~ 235 ~
bright sepals curl back
going to be
something else

~ 236 ~
that morning —
white towel folded

on his just-made bed

the guest departs

~ 237 ~
improvised
a greenhouse for the time being

~ 238 ~
 ind - isp

once those lights

5 miles down were home

but now I’m

bottomless

~ 239 ~
recorder music
through those pines
a bright kite snags

~ 240 ~
waterfall
all in a rush
near the gravestone

~ 241 ~
that playground’s full of other worlds

~ 242 ~
that lake dazzles
the toddler hasn’t
begun to speak

~ 243 ~
picnicking
families

know the lake’s

bottomless

~ 244 ~
our blue globe’s a single eye

~ 245 ~
drops of wine
on the cloth

after a meal
together

~ 246 ~
I’m up early
the basil fills out early
we all die early

~ 247 ~
olive-trees
in clay pots

below the world’s

contorted sky

~ 248 ~
gone at 93 —
here’s his
primer

~ 249 ~
she didn’t like
to bring friends home

because of
the outhouse

~ 250 ~
growing up
luminous

the house without

electric light

~ 251 ~
white enamel
wash-basin
stoneware pitcher

~ 252 ~
cemetery

that space
between

their stones
for me

~ 253 ~
a coin
in his mouth

and lantern
beside him

who needs no
more light

~ 254 ~
I sit
outside

and watch
them pass

then do
the same

~ 255 ~
the communion of saints
the forgiveness of sins
the garden in June

~ 256 ~
my strength —
the lace-leaf’s trunk
thick as my arm at last

~ 257 ~
bright new leaves
on fig tree cuttings
I feel sun-like

~ 258 ~
 2019

a flowering dogwood
mom’s black-and-white snapshot —
1962

~ 259 ~
our front door
swollen tight by rain

the struggle
to remember

~ 260 ~
lace-leaf
olive

dogwood
pine
and fig

tree
old man —

won’t be you
anymore

~ 261 ~
dozing
outside

yes you’re
a guest

~ 262 ~
small blue globe
it’s the guest room

~ 263 ~
sparrows
those nightingales

~ 264 ~
the proverb
a kitchen

~ 265 ~
the kitchen floor’s pattern
scrubbed again and again

~ 266 ~
such a deep root for my salad

~ 267 ~
il babbo mescola
le alici nella pasta
noi siamo in sei

~ 268 ~
dried figs

the color
of their skin

and shape
of my tears

after
that milk

~ 269 ~
brother
a cutting

from the fig tree

for his birthday

~ 270 ~
that paper wasp shut out
by a windowscreen —
it’s not Italy

~ 271 ~
 Garabandal

it’s true
it hasn’t
come true

~ 272 ~
there’s

plenty
of time

if you
leave now

~ 273 ~
our lace-leaf maple
a cavernous hill
I leave tomorrow

~ 274 ~
passport
have to
find it

~ 275 ~
never
done

giving
thanks

~ 276 ~
Bonaventure knew
the ghostly — life —

all there is
between two
languages

flailing — angelic
stillness

~ 277 ~
the flowering dogwoods no longer hurt me

~ 278 ~
but I need
time to thin
the lettuce

~ 279 ~
 il conte Biancamano

sono una nave

ritorno vuoto — il porto
sepolto dentro

~ 280 ~
 Butrinto

Caonia
Drepanum

Gela Feaea

Marsala L'Epiro

Camerina
Ortigia
Selinunte

Eneide V
 int’ e carcer

l’a
o
nn
mor
po
duje
n a no
’ mag e nun s’acc
addo

e
e e int’ ‘e m

as
chi

pan
nas
ce a
f
f l itt
atetaveens

o mo
cam
re s
neun s

c unzu
ia-
ona
n ’ac
alatie cuno

‘a b

cat
ta e
n
ano
un s c’ l’a

t
un
‘a l
ev
te
s

sen
enn
se
e
na
mi

mur
pa m i saz
zio c
ciz

eg a ca
am
lio mpà
ac
- digiu
ia

no
on ad
ab
da
t at a

‘ pa
ss
nu t

à‘
a
n
a
sà ‘
ut
tat

p as
a

da
ad

da

p as
ad
Pavimento napoletano
Insula
 Il senzatetto
si sente a casa
Verso Cuma
momenti

sono
uno
di voi

~ 289 ~
sull’aereo per Napoli
accanto a me

quella sagoma
mio padre

~ 290 ~
quando il vecchio mendicante
ti chiamerà nonno

saprai che sei

arrivato

~ 291 ~
stasera mangio dove De Sanctis mangiò

~ 292 ~
nonna nonna la pastiera di Pasqua

~ 293 ~
Carmine
mi prenderà a Frigento domani

~ 294 ~
the giants
imprisoned underground
I sleep on an upper floor

~ 295 ~
a glass vase
full of seashells
in their breakfront

~ 296 ~
after the temblor
families sleep outside
in their homeland

~ 298 ~
ancestral village
no one to tell now no one was left

~ 299 ~
my surname
at home in
the landscape

~ 300 ~
St. Anthony —
I find out
where I am

~ 301 ~
statue —
now the room’s
part of you

~ 302 ~
you’re human
of course

you speak
with an accent

~ 303 ~
the gardening book
in dialect —
look at those pictures!

~ 304 ~
giardinaggio —
due ginocchia
la singola terra

~ 305 ~
my homeland —
the growing season

~ 306 ~
there’s just
one road

to their
dialect

~ 307 ~
tutto quel tempo
pensavo parlassero
Napoletano
ma era Arianese
che non ho mai capito

~ 308 ~
the children’s village
and that language

gone before
they knew it

~ 309 ~
venuto al paesino
scopri che nessuno vi resta

c’è la strada ricordata

la chiesa dell’infanzia

qualche pino

una luminosità vuota

un posto preparato
in attesa di te

~ 310 ~
you fit in where no one knows you

~ 311 ~
I forget to ask about the graves

~ 312 ~
Napoli — a piazza Dante

nessuna traccia lì
neanche un capello

ma quella sera
torno dal paesino

ai resti mortali
di San Nunzio

il suo letto piccolo

come quello di mio padre —

~ 313 ~
 mio padre morente volle il piccolo letto della sua infanzia

~ 314 ~
curled-up
sleeping on church steps

one saint
after another

~ 315 ~
in Saint
Anthony’s
chapel

where’d it
all go?

~ 316 ~
that fortress
on its hill

fits in this
little window

~ 317 ~
 hotel

every room
a view of

hourglass
Vesuvius

~ 318 ~
it’s a long way
to keep all
the turns straight

~ 319 ~
fair weather for the catacombs

~ 320 ~
hand-blown glass
Christmas balls

at night in that
volcano’s shadow

~ 321 ~
 familiar wall

plastic flowers
in a blind alley’s windows

mustard-color
stucco gone in patches

~ 322 ~
the little museum
of cameos

adjacent
to cathedral

~ 323 ~
 his inner landscape

dioramas
of daily life

a room of them
underground

~ 324 ~
dopo materiali edili le fontanelle

~ 325 ~
ma com’è bello
ho perso la mia coppola tra le fontanelle

~ 326 ~
i sassi molli
avvolti sul basalto
persone rotte

~ 327 ~
 Vicino San Severo

sulle scale
un altro velato
dorme stanotte

~ 328 ~
 una sibilla

verso la fine
nel vano della porta
lei si restringe

~ 329 ~
 incontro su via Toledo

cerco una coppola nuova —

sua mano a coppa

~ 330 ~
lots of
contractions

and gestures
a homeland

~ 331 ~
first second third person
singular plural
city steps

~ 332 ~
dumbfounded
by a floor’s
tiny stones

~ 333 ~
bone-tired
he keeps a folded streetmap by his bed

~ 334 ~
I leave slips of paper with the skulls

~ 335 ~
‘na purtuvall
I finally taste the orange

~ 336 ~
‘na purtuvall
a pretty girl sells drinks the color of her hair

~ 337 ~
il cristo velato non è di marmo

~ 338 ~
 la corona di marmo

i puntali
piccoli

delle spine
e le stelle

~ 339 ~
Piazza Garibaldi
I’m lost I find
a hat that fits

~ 340 ~
quel secchio di plastica blu
che scende dalla finestra di sopra
con una corda
me lo ricordo molto bene

~ 341 ~
plastic lavender
and window-box
on a stone sill

~ 342 ~
le foglie appassite non sono di plastica

~ 343 ~
they’ve repaired the chair
by the window
but I’m leaving today

~ 344 ~
 14 sayings from capodicchino

air water earth and then the fire goes out

~ 345 ~
dirty
these feet

made of
star stuff

~ 346 ~
life walks by the window

~ 347 ~
an old bird doesn’t enter the cage

~ 348 ~
a tight shirt comes off right away

~ 349 ~
from sweet wine stronger vinegar

~ 350 ~
 the Eleatic school

form and substance

and la miseria

~ 351 ~
your body ­—
proof you are
nobody

~ 352 ~
endlessness loves the little one

~ 353 ~
who
eats

makes
crumbs

~ 354 ~
arthritic hands bring down a tree

~ 355 ~
mulching —
as if

washing
their feet

~ 356 ~
the show’s
countless
actors —

and what
applause
this rain

~ 357 ~
[Fiumicino]

all
of a piece

broken
into
itself

such light
again

the dome
above

a loaf
of bread

~ 358 ~
chestnut trees
flowering

an Italian word
sails off in me

~ 359 ~
Capsule hotel, Heathrow
weeding
you pull out

those images
and they return

~ 362 ~
my oregano escaped its pot
into that space under the lace-leaf
this was my desire as well

~ 363 ~
red — gold —
purple — green —
a garden’s

nightshade
family
gathering

~ 364 ~
belonging
to earth

not of
this world

~ 365 ~
an apple waits
untouched

on the table
overnight

~ 366 ~
exactly
what it’s called —

a fountain pen’s
reservoir

~ 367 ~
Cumulus and dragonflies
such different shapes of water

~ 368 ~
after rain in Naples
and rain in my garden
the clouds fall silent

~ 369 ~
~ 370 ~