Night wrapped around these cobbled streets
In luminous mushroom of Italian stone pines.
Stars formed faint notes on parchment skies
In acapella voices from San Pietro to Giardino delle Cascate.
A shadowed speech of fountains whispered how close the end is to the beginning.
With no escort to morning –
Always bells in darkness at the end of evening –
Always a possibility held along the bloom of these rough cobbled streets.
Coming back to the hotel,
Past Sant’ Eugenio,
Later – I read your poems long into the night.
Shadowed speech of fountains whispered how close the end is to the beginning.
Perhaps we both have been wrong.