Norchia, day of error
half a tin sign nailed to a wooden post
“olis” of necropolis hanging there

Same wrong direction, again, olive groves
running backwards through rented window

we know what each mark is equal to
but not, in retrospect, what was intended

Once in the dark cold and water-table bliss
or blue of the fractioned and visible land
Figure this
for the tiny halves of most lives
where the country and the city and the pantry all converge

-

Spanish is the reemergent fine-time and the
tight rope slither and link
And the vagrancy or relevancy…