Friday, May 30, 2014

Aquaviva Climb ~ Andrew Spacey



Creeping mists, an evolving pantheon
of Italian shadows that play and whisper
peak by peak, son by son. It hangs near
and far, inhalation steam of minds.

Hair is moist in visiting clouds, a smothering
shuts out trivia. We want to tickle these giants
the trembling ones, white and loose as whores.
They wait posing in blissful sunsets, potent

crusts pastel washed or smouldering as six nuns
ecstatic extras ghost past scrub beech
having kissed graffitid rock. I am a personal blur
to them despite Roccamagiore's beef tomatoes

bulging in pockets. Lift all curtains. Delicious
seascapes to the east but not today. No fine
tuned trees. The travertine is cracked, tumbling.
A falcon mopes timing his limits of flesh

and bone through meshes of fine grey.





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