Spring 1996 • Vol. XVIII No. 2 Poetry |

Walls Falling

Not just the one in Berlin, a two-day drive, but this one here In my own backyard, the one two Etruscans might have builtThree thousand years back, the one that three Poles and I Rebuilt last summer. Three thousand summers minus one Summer equals time. I carried these stones for years, haveTaken Sisyphus as a patron saint, know by name all the albino Scorpions lodging in the blackness behind the walls darker Than darkest. Some stones holding up the walls of Cortona Are larger than the elephant Annibale, in his Punic grandeur, Drove through this valley one morning in 217 B.C., the low Fog making his last elephant invisible to those who had never seen One. A rock will roll, given the right push, the quick torque, The shout of the peacock, the grunts all last night of the cinghiale Up the hill, rooting for sweet roots, and then crawling back into The cave that was once a wall that has now fallen. Stones thatAre too busy falling don't see the stones rising, not just square Blocks of log

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