(il treno por Catania) (Silicia 5)

thousands, millions.
mille.  grazimille to this sea locked island
for showing me fields of poppies.
near valledurmo in the midst of
nothing beyond fields
there are thousands, millions
waiting to be picked.
maybe not.
waiting to wait.
still. quiet, fragrant like
how I imagine a red sea of hills to to smell.
windmills on the hills
wind in the tunnels shuts the windows
and I swelter.
I don’t know if this is the right train.
I don’t know if this is the right way to be living
always afraid, always judging.
I don’t know if writing is clarity or confusion.
I do know
thousands, millions of poppies
are waiting for me to see breathe and
love them.