I am ever-present in Italy, reduced
to plaintive blinks and confused pouts
to inspire an impromptu tour instead
of directions. On off-days, I sit, cross-
legged waiting for a train or a sunset,
independent and anonymous, needing
nothing beyond the views, the hills tumbling
out before me like the "r" flips along
a native tongue. This is peace, this is why
I ran through seventeen years in New York,
all future tense and grinding teeth. For
Umbria, for diving into blue skies, for
the wild cat leading me to a lost lane,
asking "What took you so long?"
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