Yesterday we were there in the village at the heel
of the mountain with the late sun falling behind in the east
my back pressed to the mossed wall of a derelict home,
facing west out over the valley, layered with light and its lack,
the basin blue like the fathoms of the ocean,
spread with the shipwrecks of unfocused factories,
above, the smoking copper of the chestnuts’ decay
and the crown of alps stranded in golden snow.
Cardoso is dark and perishing cold.
The steep streets slip with a frosted phosphorescence
and the shutters are folded in stark expectation
of short days and silent nights
but not of Joe (named after Stalin, by way of a challenge)
air-guitaring in the dusk
and screaming into his fist
Don’t let the sun go down on me
Don’t let the sun go down
which kind of put it into perspective
