Outside the cathedral in Spoleto,
a man from my suburb of Atlanta
walked with his Italian girlfriend, deeply
tan into late November, teeth framed
by well-worn laugh lines. We laughed
quietly about accents and directions
and I followed a native gattino to climb
the elegantly slanted streets. Umbria
is made of towns wound like shells,
entire cities swirled and sloped so that
even the local women forsake heels.
The angles and textures are dizzying,
you reach higher for a ledge to leg over
and finally find the moment where either
you fall off or find your way home.
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