You always told me not to touch your car. It was a big thing to you. Don’t touch my car, dude. And you’d always find the fingerprint or the licked finger letter I left for you and you would say don’t touch my car and I would and you would hit me. Don’t touch my car, dude. But now, now we’ve raced one of those ridiculous races, lights off on the clifftop road, and my car touches yours and you’ve spun and hit the wall and somersaulted and hit a tree and another and now in the moonlight your car is on its side in the olive grove, gently hissing. I touched your car. Dude.
Calton Hill
Tourists face southward
New Parliament, old Palace
Cold volcano looms
Tourists face northward
Across the water Fife shines
Summer rain ends day
Your distant heard voice
your distant heard voice
drifts of smoke in the distance
hearts will be broken
All the stories come from the sea
All the stories come from the sea. They follow the rivers upstream, up brooks and burns until they reach the hilltops where the shepherds and the eagles carry them away to spread across the land. All the stories come from the sea.
holidays must end
holidays must end
friendship, sun, hope packed away
next year, yes, next year
The doorbell rings
[The doorbell rings]
Who is it?
Daniele. Come down, I’ve got something for you.
Can’t you come up?
No, come down.
Ok.
[I go downstairs and out of the main door. Daniele is standing there in the midday sun, a cardboard box in his arms. He holds it out to me.]
Here you are. It’s for the anniversary.
Thank you. But you shouldn’t have.
Take it, take it.
[I take the box. It is the size of a shoe box but lighter than a shoe box with shoes in would be.]
What is it?
It’s for you. For the anniversary.
[Daniele starts up his Vespa and rides away. I stand in the midday sun and take the lid off the box. It is not sealed. I look inside.]
[Later, on the telephone.]
Thank you Daniele. What’s his name?
I called him Twenty-five. That’s how many years it is, isn’t it?
Yes, yes, twenty-five. It’s twenty-five.
[I stop talking and look down at the tortoise walking across the floor.]
Hello, Twenty-five. Here’s to us.
taken home
Imagine a day when someone takes you home from the sea, salt sun scorched, and you sleep and you are woken with watermelon to slake your thirst.
Remember that day when someone took you home from the sea, salt sun scorched, and you slept and you were woken with watermelon to slake your thirst.
Poem on coming home from the sea
summer afternoon
sea-fresh skin on scorched salt skin
summer evening, night
The wind has turned
The wind has turned and is growing wings. Beach umbrellas ripple shade. On the deeper blue toward the horizon the first white horses appear. But still the tourists float their children out to sea on inflatable mattresses and blow-up fruit.
Three scenes, a relationship
Summer sea whirled white
Barracuda hunting tuna
Fingers cover eyes
Bent knee at sunset
Hot tears as you slowly walk
Farewell, love, goodbye
Early snow this year
My head against your shoulder
Our last breath a sigh
simonsalento 