a Viking raid
at the wood’s edge
with their grey hoods
and blood on their vests
they laugh as they pillage
the blackbird’s kist:
on the bones of the hedge
not a red drop left
Giardino della Montagnola, Bologna
There are models of time that run straight
and some that are skeined in a figure of eight
and others that swallow their tails like snakes
condemned to consume themselves on a ring.
And the slow old man in the dust of the park
intent on unwinding the knots of his chain
who shuffles around and again and again with his unbroken step like the minute hand of some ancient clock.
Here today and then yesterday and the day
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