Long afternoon shadows on the green Tuscan hills reveal the contours
of an Etruscan city of the dead, my spirit is a guardian there
sometimes when it makes its endless rounds in a place
where no secrets can be kept because ones
thoughts can be read out loud and I hear
the crashing of the waves and the
rushing of the flames but see
none, I long to fly again
like a kite hanging
over the city
where I
along with
all the Roman
ghosts who came
to bury Caesar not to
praise him; for who are we
but his best friends who stabbed
him in the back for his ambitions or
so we said but now that we have long
since joined the dead the prying sunlight
reveals a shadow created by our flaws which
has cast a poll on this place where there is no
need for sex or food or sleep; I hear a bugler on
the wind playing in some far off space we cannot reach

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