LindaAnn Lo Schiavo
That dark cathedral we´ve passed -- a second time,
I´m sure -- is proof we´re lost, this dog-eared map
Another mystery on my damp hands,
And yesterday´s last accident red, tight
Across my mind, the Autostrada lined
With better cars than our Fiesta loan
From Hertz-Italiana, drivers making
Mouthfuls of grand imperfect music there,
In our direction, hating tourists dim
As rusted roofs, our lack turned up -- exposed.
If weariness won´t finish us, rust must.
Halfway to wishing I were home, dead -- or both! --
There´s Tintorétto´s sky. The ceilings
Of the Autostrada come from paintings viewed
In muted colors as compared to this
Display: dim business of a dawn lit now
Like Lazarus just risen, frictionless.