Cicadas

You turn into the square,
pine branches transfixed in the grinding
exploding luminosity,
lions have been born, have hunted, have rolled over
in the arena of grass and roots,
bones have been buried in the tawny clay
and green has been grasped in the see-saw chant
and sky's feet endlessly shot forward
in an unshifting summer flash.

Gluttony

Maybe Icarus didn't want to challenge anybody
by the sea, in full sunlight before climbing the cliff,
with a crisp wind, crystal clear,
sky bathed in running roaring lines,
he simply wanted to taste beyond tasting
swallowing the blue air's heart
entering its stinging dry pulse,
he couldn't just sit among the pebbles
and let the bubbling whiteness
and the sizzling turquoise
lap at his feet, gold percolating
through his skin,
he couldn't just relish elusiveness,
can you?

Davide Trame lives in Venice. He is Italian and teachs English outside the city. His poems have appeared in Popetry Salzburg Review, Pikeville Review, Orbis, South, Dream Catcher and other magazines.

davide.trame@libero.it

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