It seems a long time ago
that we climbed to the spiralling top
of Switzerland’s Geneva campanile,
the name of the church I forget,
(do you remember?); I remember
the intervale between the rocketing
Jet d’eau in the tranquil Lake’s water,
the wind-gap of the concrete vault
below our feet; I never told you
(and it has been lost since)
that I wrote a poem about you
that could only be expressed
in magnificent, death-resulting leaps
(how romantic!); there were no steps
from towers, just a slow moving
in different ways from one another,
your Pisa to my Suurhusen,
until the space between reached
the extreme of square law, inversed;
but did you know there are towers
separately leaning together (Bologna)?
I know it is too late (isn’t it?),
but tilting from similar ground
I could whisper over the drop between us
words in my best Italian for building bridges.
anthonycostello 