The skies that he painted 

Were more beautiful 

Than the skies that I saw out my window.

His clouds were cloudier.

His gulls, that soared o'er the sea

In his paintings,

Were much gull-ier than these

Which fly over me today

Here in Tuscany.

Maybe in Corsica the skies are blue.

Maybe, tho their exports included

Rebellious slaves and cheap wine,

But their imports are exiled poets and kings,

Painters, sons of Charlemagne,

Who rejected Christianity.

All sent to certain madness,

Where the wind and ancient siren songs

Lullaby them into a sleep where their dreams

Are even dreamier, and distilled their tears into art.

And now I cry.

And I see the sky

Is bluer than I thought,

And this one gull

Is gull-ier,

And his sigh bids me fly with him,

Or at least to fall 

Through the blue of the sky with him,

And land on the rocks of Corsica.

-jenn