print previewback EDWARD MAYES
Se Non è Vero, è Molto Ben Trovato
We have thought it best to always be
In one’s hour, even though time is
Not as careless as we had imagined,
Heartless, yes, the gesture of your
Guess is as good as mine, or to guess
Someone’s weight, someone’s height,
Someone’s girth, someone’s depth, and
While Andrea del Verrocchio was not
Eight hands high, he had a true eye,
Kept his brushes wet, eighteen
Fists from the ground to the forehead,
Six palms to a cubit, three inches to
A handsbreadth, in the architect’s palm
Three brutti ma buoni, watching the meringue
Harden in the oven, when dynamite
Inadvertently blows up something wonderful,
Or even itself, the roads lined with beauty
Strips, the strip malls lined with ugliness,
Storms passing quickly over the lands,
The experiment that we are having
Failed, the brick we build with cracked,
The faux beauty of rot, the invention of
The beginning and the adventure of
The end, buying Vitruvius an espresso
In an Aventine caffè, that story’s too long,
Too high to see above, the time we had
Listening, the time we had with touch,
The time we had tasting, now and at a later hour.
All Must
The Lost Art of Piping Down
Se Non è Vero, è Ben Trovato