Old, old loves
graffitied intricately into the decaying curves of stone-
struck corners describe the contours of a city
in heat, air-brushed by the Sirocco
and a whiff of drying citrus.
One has the feeling even an Augustine, in such a cauldron,
would never have found the need to confess.
Lost happily in streets
of summered serpentine,
strangers sense
this place has secrets, its
smell of dark underground desires, swaying
palm-scented footsore desires, whole
honeyed catacombs of desires: a
turbulent jewel
of something-more-than-not-quite-Italy
to a rusted future by nothing less than history, yet
etched so firmly into the imagination
that even a Virginia girl
on a snowy winter’s night
remembers with longing
the smoky staccato of her pulse.



grazie a Estrella Azul ed al suo post, Sleeping Beauty of Palermo, per l’ispirazione di questa poesia e per ricordarmi quanto mi ha mancato la incomparabile SiciliaΒ  —jsl

9 thoughts on “Palermo

  1. I especially love the feelings behind these lines,
    to a rusted future by nothing less than history, yet
    etched so firmly into the imagination”
    The poem is so beautiful, made me recall Palermo and all the feelings I’ve felt while visiting, even more sharply!

    And thank you for the shout-out, I’m so glad to have inspired you with my flash πŸ™‚

  2. Ahhh…Bella Italia!
    You transported me to Sicily…the crooked streets, the smell of citrus and all of those romantic secrets which history will never tell but Italy helps you to understand.
    Your Italian is outstanding…better than mine!


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