Via Venere Della Puglia
A stone wall,
keeping an olive grove from tumbling out onto the road,
leads my bare feet past a trulli.
Fiats slide
over steamy roads
between artichoke fields.
I follow them.
Tar-tangled seaweed
carpets my trail
across the the crustaceous shoreline.
With each beat of the surf,
my calloused soles plod on.
Salty water sprays my naked chest.
I throw back my head
and the too-blue sky of Mediterranea
pelts my face.
Exhilaration.
My pace quickens.
I realize I'm running.
Tense thighs pound defenseless soles
against the sticky pavement.
A fish-tainted breeze
caresses my body.
Heads snap
as I pass a beach cafe.
Men who smell like the earth
drink cappuccino there.
My head lowers,
my arms pump,
my back absorbs the sun.
The sweatless dash turns inland,
over the fields,
through the olive groves.
From nowhere,
a toppled temple to
Venus
appears,
fades.
Three boys lean against
a white-wash wall.
One whistles
at two raven-haired girls.
The girls ignore them
but laugh to each other
between
staccato phrases.
I glide by.
My feet no longer touch the ground.
My calves tighten, relax,
flex, unflex.
The countryside moves
like a pagan dancer -
calm and relaxed, to a slow, steady pulse
And then, suddenly,
bucolic, bacchic beyond ...
The countryside blurs.
A sudden burst of speed?
Am I moving or is the countryside moving?
The countryside is moving.
It is moving so fast that,
suddenly,
I am standing still.
My feet are not kicking up dirt.
The countryside smells like it looks like it sounds like it feels like it tastes.
The subtleties of the countryside
melt
and blend
and meld
until they are a single color
a single odor
a single noise
a single texture
a single flavor.
A Single Sensation.
I reach around
and gather it up in my arms.
I roll it and fold it
until it fits
in the palm of my hand.
Then I eat/smell/touch/see/hear it.
I am nourished after my
journey.
In this way,
my naked soul is led
through the pathways of memory.