It was where the wooden bridge
crosses to Porto Corsini on the open sea
and a few men, in slow motion, lower

A windfall of raucous jeers
swirls down on my bent head.
Earth burns, slant shadows

Now that the last shreds of tobacco
die at your gesture in the crystal bowl,
to the ceiling slowly

I don’t even order a household slave
to slit my veins. Nothing troubles me.

It was our lake, its waters a few spans wide,
and we were two lives too young to be old