Preservation

At dawn the Tuscan skies drape birdsong over

new-made bales of hay, the walls

of high, stone cities. Distance hides

in folds of hills and mist. Wings lift and dip;

grapes ripen in their ballerina rows,

rising toward a wine that vows

to leave no after-aches – no matter

the quantity you drink or the pain you bring

to the long night of drinking.

No preservatives, my host explains. No need.

In Tuscany, time leaks. Noon

is leaking as we speak.

Buona sera, the men say now from the sidewalk tables.

Bells draw families home to long-drawn meals:

fresh apricots, a fine Chianti.

I waken worlds away from Tuscany,

rising from twisted sheets with a headful of regret

for the preservative weakness of the local wine,

my eyes lifting to brick, straining for a sign

that wings have passed; but only the clock

carries us on

into the long afternoon, when high in our offices we pause

and sigh, wondering what it is we’re listening for –

something we know should be happening now

-- a buona sera, a bell.