Desperately seeking Archimedes

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

arabesque fruits.

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.

.

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