YOU tell me I am wrong.
Who are you, who is anybody to
tell me I am wrong?
I am not wrong.
In Syracuse, rock left bare by the
viciousness of Greek
women.
No doubt you have forgotten the
pomegranate-trees in
flower,
Oh so red, and such a lot of
them.
Whereas at Venice
Abhorrent, green, slippery
city
Whose Doges
were old, and had ancient eyes,
In the dense foliage of the inner
garden
Pomegranates
like bright green stone,
And barbed, barbed with a crown.
Oh, crown of spiked green
metal
Actually
growing!
Now in Tuscany,
Pomegranates to warm, your
hands at;
And
crowns, kingly, generous, tilting crowns
Over the left
eyebrow.
And, if you dare, the fissure!
Do you mean to tell me you will see
no fissure?
Do you
prefer to look on the plain side?
For all that, the setting suns are
open.
The end cracks
open with the beginning:
Rosy, tender, glittering within the
fissure.
Do you mean to tell me there should
be no fissure?
No
glittering, compact drops of dawn?
Do you mean it is wrong, the gold-filmed skin,
integument,
shown ruptured?
For my part, I prefer my heart to be
broken.
It is so
lovely, dawn-kaleidoscopic within the
crack.
San Gervasio in Tuscany.