An unseasonal poem.

Cavalcade

after Montale

A blizzard of moths melt into the headlights.
They blanket parapets and crackle like sugar
under a shoe; soon, summer will unlock frost
in unseen caves, warm roots that run like veins
though orchards descending to the sea.

Hell’s envoy just flew along the avenue,
igniting a fire storm of flags, the procession
shaking panes in run-down shops, the displays
of toy guns and uniforms for children
behind shuttered windows, for now.

All the butchers are away on holiday.
This feast of meek and mild executioners
is so far bloodless; but a crude dance begins
to crush wings, while larvae on the sandbars
are washed away and no one is innocent anymore.

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