listening to mass

intoned in unison

some responses rising a major third

sound reflecting

through a chapel door

 left ajar

the old convent

is a place of peace

shadows of spinning swifts dart

across the space of Florentine light

framed by shadowed columns

. . .

ascoltare la Messa

intonato in unione

l’antifona sale a un terzo superiore

sonoro che riflette

attraverso la porta aperta della cappella

questo antico convento

e un luogo di pace

ombre di rondini

attraverso lo spazio di luce fiorentina

incorniciato da colonne ombreggiate

26 giugno 2017

A pair of crows

lit on an aerial

among the chimney-pots

of Florence

and seeing that there

was nothing shiny,

nothing of interest glinting in

the morning sun,

turned their heads as one

to draw a bead on the old man

watching from a window.

He was struggling

to find eleven more ways

of looking at a black bird or two.

They were peckish, bored and hungry;

sharp caws grating as a broom

pushing broken glass will,

the stolid broom of the cleaner

doing the dirty work after

last night's football frenzy,

wreckage of pint glasses

swept to the curb.

The crows flew off, leaving

the old man still at his window.

One black crow

and seven starlings;

swifts gyre and eddy

between terra-cotta cliffs,

mossy tiles, aerials,

chimney pots and

churchbell chimes.

Below,

a Roma girl washes

her hair at the public tap,

then resumes her tuneless

mumble for alms

to the rhythm of coins

shaken in a cup.

Walking in Florence;

loose cobbles underfoot, I

try not to stumble.

Shade directs my steps;

island-hopping, in search of

pockets of shadow.

Eyes always turned up

for an image of heaven;

today's pilgrimage.

A city of bells,

the hours marked by echoes,

tolling, tolling, told.

Strawberry moonrise,

a sparkle of lights across

a Tuscan valley.

sorgere della luna fragola

uno scintillo di luci

attraverso una valle toscana

Woke too early

must have been 4 AM

with music ringing in

my head, driving me to

the far end of the house,

where the low twang of

an unplugged Tele lets me

exorcise the itch in my fingers,

the longing on my ears, 

the urge of hands to coax 

and squeeze pure tones from

the inertia of wood and

and nickel-plated steel, releasing tension 

as sound, barely audible

in the quiet house. Some notes 

only felt, a sympathetic buzz back

through my wrists into my body,

others plink plaintively. A few

ghost notes blooming into grace,

meeting at the intersection 

plank and wire, turning the import

Squier into a chorus of honky-tonk

churchbells fading slowly like a

secondline turning the corner

onto Canal, one blue note

quavering.