Five years ago I gouged it after dark
Against a little crippled olive’s bark.
Somebody there, four, three, two years since then
Scattered the olives back to earth again.
Last summer in the afternoon I took
One tine, and hollowed out your name in rock,
A little one someone had left behind
The duomo at the mercy of the wind.
The wind, as always sensitive to prayer,
Listened to mine, and left my pebble there,
Lifted your glistening name to some great height
And polished it to nothing overnight.
If the old olive wind will not receive
A name from me, even a name I love,
Fragile among Italian silences,
Your name, your pilgrim following cypresses,
I leave it to the sunlight, like the one
Landor the master left his voice upon.
Your Name in Arezzo
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