Here in California, we can drive through any
landscape, field, flower, forest, all in reach,
at sunset, affording not to notice the exhaust
left in our stead. A daytrip takes us to the edge
of the continent, leaning out over some precipice,
looking back. We are home by dinner, the house
soft colour, where our bodies move through dark’s
thin language and something calls, urgently, from after.
Some days I don’t know if it’s fair of me, built
as I am, a man, unable to carry every inch of an idea
into the future. In Gubbio, each spring brings
the same pageant. Up hills of the medieval town,
up streets obscured by screaming crowds, three teams
of men in bright blouses tumble upward with their tribute.
Up switchbacks, up stone roads smoothed by centuries’
tradition. In the middle of May they come this way, to carry
the wooden paraphrase of candles on their sweating,
rainbowed shoulders. Each four meters tall, an emblem
of a patron saint. The same one wins each year.
All Umbria comes to watch this alias of a race.
But the exertions are real: the men intent, although
they know what little their ardor comes to. They pass
the title on through blood. Each time, the cheers
subside when they touch the basilica. They set
the good things down. What honour it must be
to carry something so beyond you up into
the sky, up toward the face of god. What work
your faith must take. What flagrancy.
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