Sicily Does Not Belong to Italy
The day’s first purpose is fog
getting slowly up above the circle of scum
awash near the sea wall, higher
than the horseshoe harbour’s white sleekness
of four sailing craft stealing slackness
from a makeshift green of fishing boats.
Morning as maker of comparisons, of separations
as the fog winches itself slowly beyond
the red and gold language of secret houses
and local flags high-set farther back,
rolling itself up right out of the air
to leave the hills’ peak-sheer barrenness behind.
Ring of lemon light splitting open,
sun as seen by fog swallowing itself
Gulls squark and nod as if they alone
have slipped away from the night
to toe-hitch streaks of sunlight
broadening the randomness
of black stone olives
in the patio tiles
At the sea wall a man stands up, looks about.
How to make use of this day, this place?
I’m imperfectly dressed,
but the temperature is an almost perfect
centigrado, as warm as Celsius
The waiter has brought green olives,
parsley and dry goat cheese
He meant Sicily
when he said “world”