Campanile (time to move on)

Fiddling with someone else’s keys,
the door is still open.

I will lock and leave here,
a craving inhabits the air,

inhabits the tedious song of thrushes.
When I was eleven, my dad went

to Florence for two weeks, I told
no one I missed him constantly.

My dad was afraid of heights, still is.

At sixteen, I went with him to Florence,
and we walked the steep spiral stairs

all the way up the Cathedral’s bell tower,
il Campanile. I was afraid of heights, still am,

but I leaned over the railing and looked down.
The ground below. A magnet. A craving.

Look, dad. I can do things that you can’t.

A craving inhabits the air,
I close and lock the door.

And the keys, I throw them
towards the cluster of trees

at the edge of the forest, startling
the thrushes. The sound of a hundred

little wings, off to somewhere else.