When summer ends
when the warmest days and warmer winds
flee up and over hillsides
like temporary visitors -
they pack their bags with counterfeits:
vino (di Veneto) and trinkets (Made in China)
and art that copies art that copies art
They rub aloe on their sunburnt skins.
The fleeing winds sweep up crowded streets
and drown out foreign noises
leaving only false sands on
empty beaches and
the Last Sons of Levanto
Thick eyelashes mask sad eyes
Wet tongues speak of romances never lived
and memories yet to be made and
the Last Sons of Levanto
echo like empty shoes through vacant streets
invisible and strange to everyone
but me
Perhaps the Last Sons of Levanto
can cure the mystery that ails me
A chill that has settled in my hands
A heaviness about my eyes
Symptoms that betray romances once endured
and the lives I’ve lived that taunt me
Reincarnation is just another death
unless the mind recalls a life before
And the Last Sons of Levanto
shine like a light that’s fading
framing old things in new ways
like a picture of a picture I am seeing for the first time
for the hundredth time
all at once
The beauty of age is pressed upon their lineless faces
like a threat
and so life -
an inspiration!
is a drudgery just the same
They tell time in seasons and even winter tastes like the sea
salt and grit sand away old skin
to reveal new scars