still glad it wasn't summer, even though
the hill was enough of a challenge
to my dying sneakers and throbbing
thighs. I followed indifferent gattini
through the alleys to the water and sat
curled into myself, watching two bold
sailboats negotiate November on
Lago Trasimeno. No ghosts, no words
of men who would have been, not in
Umbria -- just a day at the lake,
in the middle of Italy, so far from
everything that used to matter, so
close to who I'm meant to be.
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