The street and the village from two stories around it.

The street and the village

from two stories around it.


We work to our deaths

the prayers for our penance

that we may wake one morning

to the grievances behind us


It is there

I sat to play

the baby, grand as a piano

an Italian town

children to lunch

in the silence of fallen rain

a tall drop wanting.


I see the church

steeple steps

new whiteness

the cooks in the shed

weddings on the way

brides name as mine

secret into the love of a husband

the schools, the work or the play

the hardening knot of

what’s been brought on us today


A freshly scraped grave

the condolences of a new enemy

the familiar face behind the counter

bringing the fresh brew of coffee


We long to take our steps

in trustful moves toward one another

I wonder why we may be hiding

in the desperate spare of forever

our secrets dreading

the souls between us.

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