The streets of the living are among the streets of the dead, the houses of the living among the houses of the dead – three centuries of dead packed close, stacked twelve deep. On stones, scissors mark a tailor, grapes announce abundance.

Palace flags and shoot-to-kill orders,
cardboard tanks and well-lit borders,
dungeons and lice, grenades and books,
photos retouched and high-kicking boots,

If I could go back to my birthplace,    Lanciano, wander all day up and down the corso, stop by the cathedral built on the ruins of a Roman prison and pray,                                              if I could