June 2013

Vespro

listen to this poem
 
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.