Tuscany

The landscape is effective. We're calling out the hills.
Echoes want untwining. We're drawing water from fountains.


A half-open window. The half-closed sea.
The rest just flickers and


we are taking these moments apart.
The fractured time may be reset otherwise,


the other way round, toward inside.
Perspectives will run into unknown directions.


Water becomes melody, melody fulfills
desert places after our last conversation.


Melody drills the rock and returns to its first note.
All is shortened a bit.


We can hear echoes of our own words.
Perhaps we should speak slower?


Water flows down the stone pipe. Storm:
lighting and thunder are a stalemate.


For the next poem in this sequence, click here.