Descent from Brunate
We were as gods
looking down on Como
as if we could decide its fate.
Pasta served as ambrosia
on that clearest and cleanest
of frizzante days.
One last look at the
snow-capped giants guarding
mirrored waters
before the fall
of the funicular
joins us to Icharus,
another who flew
too close to the sun
then met the earth
with popping ears
and fresh memories
of heightened love.
It is too soon to say
whether compliment
or insult is meant
if you
call me
“grounded”.
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