Arezzo to Cortona

Something curvaceous and naked,
called men away, a promise
the color of lime, a laugh
like the taste of lilacs.

The church, stranded,
its cupola tilted, its cross to small
to shout ten shall nots.

Wind unbridled, faces flushed,
three men fled
past cypress sentinels,
past houses of brothers,

far from geometric days,
before a sliver of night sky fell
so tightly shut.

Vivian Eyre