Allan Peterson
Nothing That Simple


Signora Fiorentini said she was wispy as a girl but grew plump
from the fat air of Rome with its pizza and starchy clouds.
Here swallows are breathing over and over the unknown dead
something upwind and don’t seem affected still taking skid chances
with their sharp turns. No woozies.
Gasses that may have been stray cat must have lifted off as neatly
as when at the surface of the water sky gets mixed in.
But what of us. We were breathing the whole time the answer dead cat 
became clear in the undergrowth. We were drawn to bury and remember
nothing like simple-minded replacement is satisfying. 
Not even borrowing. Only another life like this one will do.
Neither new leaves filling the sky or the wind touching water
with its feather brush can make amends. From where the swallows are
the sea is full of eyebrows endless and surprised.