Approaching the Piazza Novonna



I know too much history.
Without it I would have thought this
some happy city which had, not too long ago,
suffered a mishap, an earthquake,
a contretemps with some neighboring, bombardiering power.
All these ruins– brick and concrete, for the most part,
look like home when they were ramming the Interstates
through the old neighborhoods.
The buildings are the colors of bodies:
ivory and sand and cinnamon and sapwood.
Even the churches under those great domes
do not scorn to be–let’s face it– silly,
with their Baroque saints lofting to the sky,
hinder parts inevitably toward the audience;
the popes, having outlived their moment
even a thousand years ago, forever building
something beautiful to be looked at,
instead of them.

Rome, in the house of garments
yours is veronica and robin’s plantain (whatever
they call them here) that nod and gossip in the Circus Maximus,
weeks before spring, the green robe they decorate
tied by Frangipanis’ tower so it drapes and billows in the wind.

Rome, in the sea of song
yours is bel canto sung from memory
by a boy in the street, made playful and sexy
in his mouth, changing the heroine’s name
to the name of a girl who smiled more than once
in that slanted brilliance at winter’s end.
It does not need to mention wine
to run with it, red and sweet.
It does not need to mention the white flowers
gripped into the ruined walls, holding with such
suavity their difficult place.

Rome, thy river among rivers,
the green Tevere tamed by so many bridges,
needs only the mention of its name
to shake the Amazons, the Congos
all be-crocodiled. The stone I tossed in
rattled Caesar’s bones.

Rome, the end point of thy story, now, is
ten boys playing soccer in the Piazza Navonna,
letting Neptune assist with his burly shoulder,
scattering the camera-ed tourists, making Bernini’s
fountain-whitened visages, Pamphili’s pale ghost
gliding under the porticos, making them smile
that all their strife had come to this.
The white ball goes into the air.
All are watching, holding their various strange breaths,
lordly bloodstains, the bent daggers, Muses, Demons--
even the stones.