FRUSTOVENTO


The wind walks the grass. Bee orchids, crickets,
the good, solid house, the stone house on
a platform rising from the brush of the hillside
under Monte Subasio. Clover, trickling water.
The closed house, platform for an angel's foot

An angel from the paintings over the hill. Voices
gently in the ear of the sleeper, negociating
a temporary pact with the gravities of the world.
Crotchet of green leaf chained to the solar system
where the angel's foot descends, and lightly rests

For a moment. On a roof tile, or neatly avoiding
a buttercup, and is gone. Does the hero's heart
burn for something grander? Or the earth beg release
from hearts with no time for such smallnesses?
Begs and pleads, for the tear to fall as due.