previously published in Orbis, Winter 2001

Bora

Absolute directness of the blades of the wind.

Skylight with an eagle stare.

The margins of the land are neat

as dug out of the air

and indented in the skin.

And how thin the skin, a flimsy thing,

bruised, easily burned by this wind.

It’s right into the bones, in their essential ash.

Up at dawn you measure your gaze

with the sharp lagoon,

the outlines of the mountains cleared up,

the ready North, straight, uncompromising;

a neatness that requires a prayer

in the eagle’s eye frame,

crossing the heart as quartz,

knowing the sky has manifold ways

to sever your seconds.

Davide Trame

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