For Francesca
The columns curve slightly inward,
like the fabric of your skirt when you walk,
and there are no other sights like this one,
only intimations of the one we love.
All things seep white light and breathe
through lazy, Attic afternoons. Stones
are loaned life by a searing breeze
blowing down from barren hills.
Does it matter how many people
walk over these smooth-worn rocks?
I touch the marble and your eyes, and feel
that my life is like a broken crock.
Bend down to see the curving floor.
Curve your Roman lips at my mien—
a charade—desire, laughter—destined
more quickly than words to fade.
Off the cliff, above the white city,
a kestrel flies—motionless—by our side.
This too captures me, like the broken marble,
your tepid smile, and like the mythic tree.
