Thunder at Montecatini Alto

From the castello,

A clock portends no time.


Under abstract robe of clouds,

Light goes out below Montecatini Alto

Where Olive trees walk up from the valley

in a sliver raiment of sleeping saints.


By the Parco delle Terme,

Grey streets worn with feet of the dead

Cool a long afternoon.


Over stained rosary windows,

Faint homilies of thunder begin

calming a field of wild strawberries.


Here –

At the terrace of ending worlds,

Stone angels hold trumpets of eternity –

And we wait with them,

As if there was something we could do.