Anarchia in Piemonte

A family of lights
gathered over there

where you took me
south of the city

We came to Vercelli, your hometown--
only fields of rice and knobby trees

Then walked la galleria, Porta Nuova to Porta Susa
as dry as kings in the rain.
The new way is the old way again, you said, just with a different face--
neofascismo
We left our safety, and out of 1000, 100 came into the street
It rained on those hundred, of which we were two.

But later, Inside, the bar was warm, a large oven,
the ceiling a well laid arch above us, and at
crossroads of conversation, words gave us spring,
rising over our
heads like steam, wrapping us.

Rice silos, rice beer
To return to la tera--
The new way, you said, is the old way all over again.

When we arrived to the place we were going--
and whether it was the top of the mountain
or the confluence of the two rivers--
You gathered our thoughts together and held open the palm of your
hand.

You said, They are out there, making a pilgrimage to
Predappio, learning nothing, getting ready for the war.

You held open the palm of your hand.