Vesuvius
It’s going to blow.
The saxophone sexuality
of a volcanic slumber
has become a thundering in our hearts.
We feel it in the thigh of being
and in the strung valleys
of elbows and knees.
Olives groves and vineyards
tremble in their green dreams.
Village churches stumble
over their stone steps.
Black bedecked widows
plead their prayers under the clamor
of evermore strident bells.
Forewarnings rumble everywhere,
molten threats menace,
hazards hover,
hang and heap upon our heads.
The quaking cone seems nearer.
We tread water upon fretful tracks
the land leans,
is less latched together,
leavers and the lost
move more slowly
wading through
the darkling dust of history,
Imagining now the terraced hills
already sliding to the sea.
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