[wpaudio url=”/audio/june13/vespro.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″]
 
The two trees in the Garden
of Eden did not bear apples.

Fig leaves on the domes
of your eyes, your lids
crumpling smoke-blue at dawn
reminded me, in half-sleep,
how your breasts from their inward
transformations had reemerged
through your back,
where they doubled
as shoulder blades
and it was good.

A cool wind chases through the Eternal City.
Were new angels singing at noon?

From the green peak of the Gianicolo
over bleached grass-blades and violet
paving stones, the day-moon
and the dome of St Peter’s
are both eclipsed
by the enormous testacles
of the stone-armored steed
of the mounted Garibaldi,
unifier of Italy.

The moon and the dome of St Peter’s
are pale fluorescing breasts.

When I squint, these sunspots
are areolae the color of split figs.
Your lips are split figs.
We are encrypted in a garden
within the air
behind the air. All of Italy
is ripe and sticky.