The street appears to be wet.
No. No. You've just been crying.
How easily we forget
the source? The pavement's drying.
I lent it my handkerchief.
The sun smiles to banish grief.
It shone on the day he died.
They all went to the beach. I'd
rather it that way. Termites
embark from Tunisian nights
and come out in thermal springs.
In order to check the weapons,
remove dentures and eye-glass.
Flash them and they let you pass.
The horizon grits its teeth
as the black sun sinks beneath
necessity's terrible bite.
Darkness won't let you off light.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
In Sciacca there is concrete theatre abandoned to weeds. Nearby is the spa hotel where Guy de Maupassant stayed as his syphilis was entering the tertiary stage (general paralysis of the insane). The thermal springs appear to have dried up. Maupassant recovered sufficiently to write an affectionate book about Sicily.
