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In HopeI held Jonathan’s little hand as we walked alongside the lake. “What’s that, Daddy?” he asked, pointing out across the water at a snow coloured bird on the surface.
“That’s a white duck. There aren’t as many of them as the other ones,” I replied. I didn’t know if that fact was strictly accurate, but it seemed to satisfy the three year old.
“I like him, can we get ducks, Daddy?” looking up at me with his pale blue eyes.
“Maybe one day,” I said vaguely, pulling up one of the straps of my rucksack that had begun to slip down my back, “We’d have to have a pond though first.”
“And it would have fish and frogs and bugs too, wouldn’t it Daddy? And I could sail my boats on it. Can we build one when we get home?”
“Not today, Jonny, it’s too cold. Next year Grandpa and Uncle Frank could come and help us. That sounds fun doesn’t it?”
He nodded, looking up
SwingsetCharlie let himself cry. The hot tears burnt his eyes as he curled into a tighter ball under the blankets. He could hear little other than his own laboured breathing. It was pitch black, and he could see absolutely nothing. Charlie’s own body heat barely kept him warm under the heavy material that concealed him, and he tucked his small hands under his armpits. Both in his mind and skin, the pain was still fresh. In fact, he was sure he could feel blood causing his shirt to stick to his back. His breath caught in his throat as he choked on his own tears. The boy coughed a little, shaking. Charlie could feel the coldness creeping up from the stone ground below, wrapping its icy fingers around him and keeping him still.
The soft creak of footsteps on the wooden stairs caught his attention, and he was suddenly silent. The boy held his breath to stop himself crying. “O Charlie,” said a firm and patronising voice, “You’re down here, aren’
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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