In the front pews of the Basilica
we sit sketching scenes of what is to come.
We are silent and we know
there is something to this place.
the bus we pass Lake Trasimeno.
It is America in here, and cold.
Now, soon into Assissi. St. Francis the Italian.
The art, again,
Giotto. The history immense.
Out there turf
screams to be pushed down
by audacity, allow the arch, heel, toe of our solitudes
to crush its immortality. We want its mineral crust
to adulterate our arms, feel
our skin broken by the world.
we fill in shadows,
pale dimensions from a bus. I want to push
arm through the glass and let
Italian rain fall on my American hand.
It seems I will stop breathing—
maybe have. I rise to gape at olive trees
and am told we cannot stop.
Basilica di San Lorenzo from the inside is immaculate.