Type
Poetry
Category
Writing

Untitled

We ran as fast and far as we could without stopping for rest or water. We saw so many things and what we didn’t see we imagined we saw when we re-remembered. We felt young enough for seeing for the first time. We felt old enough for loving and living like lovers. In Spain I grew a beard and in London you cut your hair. We watched three sunsets in Venice and not once did I think about Thomas Mann’s Death in Venice until we got to Florence. In Greece we made love on a cliff with the sea as a witness. In Vienna, you asked for a normal life and I dreamed of the Ferris wheel. In Berlin I was a self-indulgent child. I refused to speak to you and went to a bookshop. I found a book about a man who lived on one of the Saronic Islands in Greece. The photographs in the book were taken from a personal collection and I found one photograph of the man as a poet. He is standing with the natural harbour behind him. Below the photograph I read that his eyes see the millions before him. It is 1961. I imagined a story about this man standing there in the harbour in 1961. He is listening to the talk of lovers while clinging to the last lines of a poem he was writing. He is thinking of his wife but he is ruined and searching for a means of keeping her face from fading. He keeps her photograph in his wallet. He wants to make love with her while the last lines of his poem reveal themselves. He does not feel free and tries to conjure a rhyme about being jailed by the horizon and having to endure beautiful young bodies being bruised delicately through stories as old as the natural harbour. He clings to his fading youth; he clings to the fading proof of her. He loves in a sepia world, among the loose tongues kissing and creating better histories.

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Davide Angelo is a writer of poetry and fiction. He currently lives and works as an educator in Bendigo, Victoria.

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