the side of the road, sometimes, sometimes under
a flowering tree, seated on a culvert, stubbornly
wearing the same dress, as close or far as thunder
curling up a mountain? See the mat of sunlight
under that cedar? There she is! Look how the hedges
above Recanati blaze like a line of verse,
or how the palm or the pine tree blazon their edges
above where she waits in the dusk, lifting no arm
in greeting, her gaze looking through you.
How did she know where I was going, so calm
in her unacknowledging patience, the fringe
of her russet locks as her figure recedes
towards our inevitable meeting? She can singe
my memory in advance, so I go where she leads.
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