for the night, we decide
we must go now
while we can.
New York is sinking,
we go to Pompei,
itself a reminder
that nothing is permanent.
Vesuvius erupted yesterday,
volcanic ash blanching
the air above Naples.
At the airport, we rent a car,
and suddenly we can smell
the sea, feel distended light.
We seek God in the vortex
of ocean and sand, find
grandmother’s hills.
Twisted olive branches
twine with chestnuts
in the valley, arcing
to the sky. The disc of sun
falls from heaven
into the city of ghosts.
Like us, the horizon moves
but never really disappears.
We finish where the sky begins.
