At Daisy’s age I was initiated by an Italian

In the backseat of a Fiat. I’d begun to walk

To il centro di Roma, a sultry hour

Away, naively oblivious to the unhealthy

Urbanity of the city I’d sauntered off

To find. The blurred edges of Rome were beautiful,

But I was pursuing the clearly beautiful:

Deep catacombs, curlicue friezes, Italian

Inlaid marbles, and a more ancient sun’s glance off

The bleached porticoes of a cloister’s walk.

I abandoned my friends, who’d consumed unhealthy

Pale gelati after a golden noon hour;

Mapless, I attempted the Sistine in an hour.

The three ragazzi in the car were beautiful

In my estimation, with nothing unhealthy

In their flourish of inviting gestures or their Italian

Colloquialisms. Why should I walk?

I accepted the ride, and the driver took off.

The boy in back went right to taking off

My dress, working the silver zipper for a Roman hour.

The “Wedding Cake” glinted on the other side of a walk;

As from under marble his whisper slid: Com’ é bella!

Even i understood this sliver of Italian.

They say the air above the Tiber is unhealthy

As the silver age of an empire is unhealthy.

Marble arms, more graceful than strong, fall off

Or grow too languid to resist and Italian.

The Pantheon closed its doors during the hour

That Rome fell submissively under the beautiful

Certainty of the hot sun slanting up the sidewalk

Like a hand sculpting legs too weak to walk.

The Italians must have found my breathing unhealthy;

They dropped me at the Coliseum with a few beautiful

Bending over backward kisses and drove off

In the bloom and perfume of Rome. Since that hour

I have desired everything Italian.

Faintly, between the lines, in James’s hand: “Walk off

To the Pincio, Daisy. Desire has but one unhealthy hour.

You are beautiful and I …”  The rest is in Italian.