I had wanted to say more before about the sounds
on the winding streets of the little Sabine town
at this time of the evening; the fumbling voices
carried high by the big acoustics, interspersed
by the fired exclamation – the careless drawl
of high Latium, the meaning of which lies
in the delivery, not the words, which is just as well.
Anyway the recoil is tremendous, and my memory
of it like stone, and the spaces between stone,
the voices dissipating as they rise to the high
open sky like a veritable Tower of Babel.
Later, the silences, heavy doors, the drill
of a pitch-perfect Lambretta; later still
the ill-defined silences, the scraping of furniture,
footsteps shuffling, a cough; and a fit of laughter
between the high walls rises, falls; and turns
intricate corners to me. I stop to take it in;
resume, thru the old town, out the castle walls
and up the main drag toward the northern suburbs –
a good walk on a natural high of pills and liqueur.
I remember with fondness now my mother’s apartment,
the small east-facing balcony with a long view
of the resplendent Apennines. After she died
I slept in her bed for two weeks, and cleared out.
9 October 2015