[after Italo Calvino]

I want to come home.
Here in the city of Precipia
the clouds have lowered,
black birds are leaving in Vs.
I toured a metalworking plant today,
and watched while works of art
were melted into weapons.
They took a gorgeous menorah
bronze figures holding candles
as they danced the hora, all
twirling skirts, clicking heels
and smelted it into sidearms.
Revolvers rolled off the line,
an endless array marching right,
facing east.
I want to leave
before they turn poetry to gunpowder.

01/20/2003

Posted on 01/21/2003
Copyright © 2026 Bruce W Niedt