We did not inherit land,
only remnants of fields they burned—
black fields scorched before we understood

Maybe I remember getting brunch;
or the time the dog ate my croissant;

He couldn’t play rugby – the oval slithered away
whenever he touched it and he fell in the mud
or more often was pushed with some viciousness.

When we first came here two seasons ago
You were barely as high as my hip
Now you can look me right in the eye
It’s almost impossible to believe

When our plaything ricochets
falling
who knows where
everything hinging
on the line

I hear the roar of
the ocean. I hear
a series of shrieks
and long screams.

Nobody knows what Cicero’s gardener whistled
to his figs and olives, what the consul’s young wife
hummed to herself while slaves combed beeswax
and perfumed oils from Carthage into her hair.

She creeps under the opening, then stands.
Her guide passes her the stub of a candle,
holds up his own to show the ceiling rock.

The track leads through thickets, threaded with eyes.
Elusive scraps of dreams, they gleam, flicker out.