At Santo Spirito
At that hour, fishing. No right to be there.
But had to be, there, that reach eyes desired,
fire leapt, net lifted water, pitched and strained
black. Or those could be, unlike what we were,
butterflies flaring, striking at our eyes
to die in us. And what was there is not.
The ground become rock. The reek of caged flesh.
My walk breaks on the edges. And I stop
then, suddenly, alone, and look out and,
no longer with a wing to hang upon,
out into whatever sky or abyss,
into the darkness that comes back and in,
and where the light had fluttered and gone down
suspending me, is only space I breathe,
breathe itself, and I can see through night night.
