In Campo Aperto
I lean against the lime-tree and watch
as crows come down from their branches to the sun-ruined field,
arranging themselves in the dry grass like ink-strokes
on a yellowed score. It is summer.
I am humming to myself, my back to the bark.
Somewhere, like a listless river, is a way
of forgetting. My fist loosens—
perhaps I’ve forgotten how often we betrayed one another.
Whatever grain I am carrying, you come to claim it,
like a wild crow eating from my hand.