The Exile

It is the place I return to.
Lying awake nights I imagine
the wind just back from the cypress trees
brushing me lightly as I
step from the house;

in the garden the leaves are speaking of
roads that empty into stillness.

July; each star wants us to see through it
& find the universe.

I will walk up the road behind the house
& think of a young boy running in & out
through the doors of darkness, calling his
friends by name; his friends call back, leaping
into the tall grass to meet him.

I return to the house. From a window, a woman
shouts for the boy to come in.

I feel sorry for her
like the fool that I am,
like the man I will never be.

Pier Giorgio Di Cicco

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