Federico Clavarino, from the series Italia O Italia, 2014, courtesy the artist
In kinder times we might have loved
you told me once before –
to kindle growth from years
that cling to us like folds of fat.
A flattened scene repeats the same – the mute
shells on which we stoop are ruins; and when
in the light and half light our train pulled in
a few minutes late, the flame cropped shadows
and snarled dogs. Then, the arch would slant
its dust-hunched praises at the Portbou smile
hugging our eyes. And though we loved like wasps –
your chin’s harp still cast the pale day
on sheets uncomplicated by the light –
we’d hoard our time in paint and greedy brick.
At times you’d say you wanted to return
but it wasn’t your country anymore.
Today’s mistake shaped yesterday’s fall. Nothing
happens: that might be what you failed to learn
though your verse sits still beside me
and mourns your hopeful limbs.
Sean Mark, 2014
Federico Clavarino, from the series Italia O Italia, 2014, courtesy the artist
In kinder times we might have loved
you told me once before –
to kindle growth from years
that cling to us like folds of fat.
A flattened scene repeats the same – the mute
shells on which we stoop are ruins; and when
in the light and half light our train pulled in
a few minutes late, the flame cropped shadows
and snarled dogs. Then, the arch would slant
its dust-hunched praises at the Portbou smile
hugging our eyes. And though we loved like wasps –
your chin’s harp still cast the pale day
on sheets uncomplicated by the light –
we’d hoard our time in paint and greedy brick.
At times you’d say you wanted to return
but it wasn’t your country anymore.
Today’s mistake shaped yesterday’s fall. Nothing
happens: that might be what you failed to learn
though your verse sits still beside me
and mourns your hopeful limbs.
Sean Mark, 2014
Federico Clavarino, from the series Italia O Italia, 2014, courtesy the artist
In kinder times we might have loved
you told me once before –
to kindle growth from years
that cling to us like folds of fat.
A flattened scene repeats the same – the mute
shells on which we stoop are ruins; and when
in the light and half light our train pulled in
a few minutes late, the flame cropped shadows
and snarled dogs. Then, the arch would slant
its dust-hunched praises at the Portbou smile
hugging our eyes. And though we loved like wasps –
your chin’s harp still cast the pale day
on sheets uncomplicated by the light –
we’d hoard our time in paint and greedy brick.
At times you’d say you wanted to return
but it wasn’t your country anymore.
Today’s mistake shaped yesterday’s fall. Nothing
happens: that might be what you failed to learn
though your verse sits still beside me
and mourns your hopeful limbs.
Sean Mark, 2014
Federico Clavarino, from the series Italia O Italia, 2014, courtesy the artist
In kinder times we might have loved
you told me once before –
to kindle growth from years
that cling to us like folds of fat.
A flattened scene repeats the same – the mute
shells on which we stoop are ruins; and when
in the light and half light our train pulled in
a few minutes late, the flame cropped shadows
and snarled dogs. Then, the arch would slant
its dust-hunched praises at the Portbou smile
hugging our eyes. And though we loved like wasps –
your chin’s harp still cast the pale day
on sheets uncomplicated by the light –
we’d hoard our time in paint and greedy brick.
At times you’d say you wanted to return
but it wasn’t your country anymore.
Today’s mistake shaped yesterday’s fall. Nothing
happens: that might be what you failed to learn
though your verse sits still beside me
and mourns your hopeful limbs.
Sean Mark, 2014
Federico Clavarino, from the series Italia O Italia, 2014, courtesy the artist
In kinder times we might have loved
you told me once before –
to kindle growth from years
that cling to us like folds of fat.
A flattened scene repeats the same – the mute
shells on which we stoop are ruins; and when
in the light and half light our train pulled in
a few minutes late, the flame cropped shadows
and snarled dogs. Then, the arch would slant
its dust-hunched praises at the Portbou smile
hugging our eyes. And though we loved like wasps –
your chin’s harp still cast the pale day
on sheets uncomplicated by the light –
we’d hoard our time in paint and greedy brick.
At times you’d say you wanted to return
but it wasn’t your country anymore.
Today’s mistake shaped yesterday’s fall. Nothing
happens: that might be what you failed to learn
though your verse sits still beside me
and mourns your hopeful limbs.
Sean Mark, 2014