Somewhere in Italy
Four skinny, frantic saints in niches
Of a dusty vermilion cathedral.
One saint, attacked by weather,
Has a face, a biscuit color.
Bushes grow as high as the saints' waists.
Bright sun creates the appearance
That the bushes are burning,
But ours is an age when burning bushes cannot speak.
I turn my gaze from the abandoned church,
To gaze at the empty seat besides me.
You could have been in this seat, Chiarra.
I recall you, Chiarra, at the Fregene Beach
In a white bathing suit, shining like an aurora
Against the gray background of the water.