“Il vecchio mondo sta morendo. Quello nuovo tarda a comparire. E in questo chiaroscuro nascono i mostri.”

–Antonio Gramsci

The wind finds us face down in the dirt,
hair lifted above heads like prairie grass.
We hung your shirt on a dead tree stump
and kept walking away from the sun.
I remember a field of lavender.
You whisper something about the poor
eating the rich. We could get there
from here. We watched that movie
before yellow dust filled the air.
If we try hard enough, we can hear
the lament of stones. We learn
to keep our eyes in our hands
and fold our bodies in trash bins
chained together to enter the storm.