The Costa San Giorgio

3 0 00

The Costa San Giorgio

We English make a tepid blot

On the messiness

Of the passionate Italian life-traffic

Throbbing the street

up

steep

Up

up

to the porta

Culminating

In the stained fresco of the dragon-slayer

The hips of women sway

Among the crawling children they produce

And the church hits the barracks

Where

The greyness of marching men

Falls through the greyness of stone

Oranges half-rotten are sold at a reduction

Hoarsely advertised as broken heads

Broken heads

and the barber

Has an imitation mirror

And Mary preserve our mistresses from seeing us as we see ourselves

Shaving

Ice cream

Licking is larger than mouths

Boots than feet

Slip

Slap

and the string dragging

And the angle of the sun

Cuts the whole lot in half

And warms the folded hands

Of a consumptive

Left outside

her chair is broken

And she wonders how we feel

For we walk very quickly

The noonday cannon

Having scattered the neighbourвАЩs pigeons

The smell of small cooking

From luckier houses

Is cruel to the maimed cat

Hiding

Among carpenterвАЩs shavings

From three boys

вАФOne holding a barвБ†вАФ

Who nevertheless

Born of human parents

Cry when locked in the dark

Fluidic blots of sky

Shift among roofs

Between bandy legs

Jerk patches of street

Interrupted by clacking

Of all the green shutters

From which

Bits of bodies

Variously leaning

Mingle eyes with the commotion

For there is little to do

The false pillow-spreads

Hugely initialed

Already adjusted

On matrimonial beds

And the glint on the china virgin

Consummately dusted

Having been thrown

Anything or something

That might have contaminated intimacy

Out

Onto the middle of the street