The clouds, Giorgione, sprawl, spread overhead,
Some purple, some orange-a little red.
On ground, brown leaves, cotton from cotton trees,
Old fence, black iron, now fallen on its knees.

An abandoned villa, windows alabaster,
Inside, a swallow flies over plaster.
I watch its shadow cross the round window,
The swallow is alone among frescoes.

A fountain, on top, Venus and her charms,
Although this Venus has a broken arm.
The rim, a rusty red, circles a void.
In basin, stray orange cat appears annoyed.

My attraction to the abandoned, deprived,
Such as myself, has helped me to survive.

I miss the dark courtyard, its old, warped wheel
From oxen's cart, the large, green Chianti
Straw-covered bottles. I do miss the stones
Now sprawled in weeds to turn gold-green, that once,
A castle. I do miss the short waiter
Who danced with a tall, cardboard Marylin.
When I had all this, it was imperfect.
It was a long time ago, but today
This town in Italy, whose name I don't
Remember is now the most perfect place.
As I sit here in my imperfect present.

A modest light blue room, dark blue rafters,
Scattered saints of plasters, a picture
Of knight in armor. He holds a lantern,
Looks for cave with a girl and dragon.
Outside, Fiats roar as someone made a score
At event of sports. I was sitting
Looking at bibelots when something like a vision happened.
The vision had not the grandeur as when Saul
Fell off a white horse, changed his name to Paul.
But this vision probably has had some consequences,
If not as momentous as a conversion
And the spreading of new religion.
I thought I heard a gavotte,
But then it sounded like a pavane.
It might have been because the radio was on.
I saw dust motes in a shaft of light
That came down blue through the blue window.
One mote started to dance.
I wanted to dance with her
But she had no body I could hold.
I reached out slowly with one finger to touch the dancer,
But only saw a blue light on my extended hand.
I could not touch her, but the mote kept dancing,
Speeding up the tempo as in Ravel's Bolero.
All of a sudden the mote stopped dancing.
When I went to see if I could find her,
I found only a pile of dust on the floor.
The first time I recalled this day in Florence,
I rushed out of the house,
Drove to the store to buy cat food.
Upon arriving at the store, I realized I did not need any.
My shelves were stacked with cans.
I did not buy any, but went back home,
Drove around the block three times
Before I went into my empty house.

    BUTTER BEANS

I watched her knees as she shelled butter beans
Into a green square cracked bowl held between
Her slender legs. She dropped the husks into
Her lap. They criss-crossed, formed a green Calder,
A mobile that vibrated when her legs shifted.
The beans, pale jade, were like raindrops that fell
In splashes to become green, white-streaked marble.
Soon, I also did start to shell these beans;
My fingertips became pale green. I felt
I was pale green all over, a forest god.
We shelled in silence. Her head leaned towards
My bent head, and without saying one word,
We discoursed vociferously about
What was deeply concealed under our clothes.

When epistles were
Billets-doux, lace
Dripped from sleeves,
Slaves did the laundries

Gallants in gold silk
Discussed the crepuscular,
The muscular were in carnivals
Next to the freak show.

Politeness
Was noblesse oblige,
Husbands saved harsh vocabularies
For their wives, disenfranchised.

Is it now said
The Enlightenment and reason.
Prepared for fascism,
Auschwitz.