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.