Once, in Syracusa by the sea, we searched all morning long
for the birthplace of Archimedes, but found
instead the Ristorante-Pizzeria Archemede,
open only at night, late. So, disappointed,
we gave up and decided to have lunch
at the Luna Rossa on the quay near the ducks
where we watched a storm rise up from the sea.
Calamari and white wine.
A couple sat at the table next to ours
their outfits and behavior spoke of the days
of Pirandello, a couple of characters who
had found their roles of a lifetime.
She was the brassy bohemian, nails blood
red lacquer, eyes kohl’d up and wary.
He was lanky as a skeleton, dark blonde and
wrapped in a fringed scarf patterned with
What happened next:
a frank ocean light skinned the couple
like pomegranates, juices staining the terrace
said this is not our first time to be
free of the road, quiet and here. They smoked
thin cigarillos and toasted the sea, drinking
a blue-green liquor from egg shells of crystal.
Under the folds of her eyes she died.
The skeleton sure looked like Archimedes to me.