Skip to content
Give readers a window on the world. Click to donate.
from the November 2005 issue


Arcades: steps toward the sun.
Stone crossbeams with figures of griffins and nereids.
Saint James shoulders up a prison tower
and Saint Anthony stands in the door of a café
where you have just drunk espresso and finished your panini.
The marble procession in Prato della Valle and via Donatello
where you are led by a blind boy.
Gardens full of morning glories, their lines
apparently designed by a Botticelli.
And a woman's voice - a whisper? a rustle of thoughts? -
falling like leaves through dusk.
It leads you to a place of clearances,
among crushed capitals of columns
where birds used to build their nests.
Or maybe this is just the look's density?
Or water gathering in a hollow, drop by drop?
You hang around town like a drifter.
A pigeon with a broken wing flutters in your hands.
The wind carries you into the light, toward its source:
shadows fall upon your face, you have to blink your eyes.

For the next poem in this sequence, click here.

Read more from the November 2005 issue
Like what you read? Help WWB bring you the best new writing from around the world.