RUINS AT THE WELL
I skip school and go down to the old well,
hatching a scheme against the ancient washing machine—
a kind you had to crank by hand
and rollers up on top—how long
it'd take to kick and beat it out of the ground
and drag it to the well.
I am the anti-Archeologist.
Discoveries fall away. Crumbled stairs,
square nails, strange pieces of tile—
let them echo down the walls of the well.
Rome is far. Almost unthinkable.
The ikons, the sophisticates
in European cinema magazines,
they are far. And I am here. This well.
One hand is bleeding.
An old brick has splashed, now sinking—
deep calling to deep.
And the stone I raised in my hand to chase it,
I stack now on top of another stone.
Let some traveler come by and find them.
I skip school and go down to the old well,
hatching a scheme against the ancient washing machine—
a kind you had to crank by hand
and rollers up on top—how long
it'd take to kick and beat it out of the ground
and drag it to the well.
I am the anti-Archeologist.
Discoveries fall away. Crumbled stairs,
square nails, strange pieces of tile—
let them echo down the walls of the well.
Rome is far. Almost unthinkable.
The ikons, the sophisticates
in European cinema magazines,
they are far. And I am here. This well.
One hand is bleeding.
An old brick has splashed, now sinking—
deep calling to deep.
And the stone I raised in my hand to chase it,
I stack now on top of another stone.
Let some traveler come by and find them.
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