We always seemed to go to the sea in sharp weather.
I remember Massimo driving us to Ostia.
Flying down the tree lined road to the deserted beach.
In a sandy town we ate scampi, the only customers
in an enormous room before the gray of the sea.
Today in this other empty town I arrive first.
Open the shutters protecting the front door.
I began to worry when you were late,
bits of road with no shoulders or guard rails.
Here I am, older and more careful at this ocean,
but you still travel with me. Perhaps
when I return inland I will search for the film
I shot all those years ago -- the jerky road -- 16 mm images
the poplars flying by and Massimo grinning,
laughing, telling us things in Italian we did not understand