There are no more visions here.
The uomini-ombra have packed up
and gone. Ferragosto is a memory.
Soon the evenings will be more
than chilly, the lago silent,
save for itself. The local fishermen
and foreign fishermen are already
laying down watery carpets, this year’s
thoros, ready for next summer’s
metaphysical catch. The Perugians
are following suit, boxing up porcelain
coffee sets, securing wooden shutters,
driving their children away,
sweeping up leaves as if all the leaves
had already fallen.
But listen, and believe,
this is no time for departure,
this is a time worth waiting for,
forgotten and forgetful. Anything
that bites now will be real.