Misled, gone back to spy beyond the border,
you sought out moon-touched bridges, reachable horizons—
tense, on the unnerving end of a broken wire,
having fed your fever with heady observations
yet to be linked. Your transmissions were ignored.
Your desperate bids for greatness in your hour
of logistical triumph then went unrewarded,
scattered like the agents in your power.
I mean you stood a shadow. The Port of Naples
lay locked down below. Palm fronds laddered
up toward a dark dome with its dirigibles.
On that last sickle of land, you sensed what mattered
had soured, like palm fruit quartered in the brain.
Your shade-gloved hand still mapped its last remain.
Photo by Bob Price from Pexels