Issue 88, Summer 1983
It was where the wooden bridge
crosses to Porto Corsini on the open sea
and a few men, in slow motion, lower
or haul in their nets. With a wave
of your hand you gestured toward the other
invisible shore, your true homeland.
Then we followed the canal as far as the wharves
of the town, glistening with soot,
in that lowland where a cold spring
slowly settled down, outside memory.