Never on the Funicular

(alla memoria di Napoli, 1944; out Branch Avenue, Providence, 1934)

I keep an Italy
it was always raining
stones inside or corridors, stairs present a smooth and moist
footing where drunks can fly, to their bums, unwarily running
and area-ways and old courts and buildings seeming old
are grimed and wet, so that the lights of the poor look comfortable
rooms are bars but bed-covers
fringed; holy pictures garish
and women's heads covered while they show a bosom.
Back home, sunny
backyards with tables under our once-forbidden wine
was Italian knowledge, a game of "Boss," kings made by throwing fingers
and winter made bright by sticky warm anisette
against an American chill.  Of course, above Naples there was a
                                                        bush of vegetable roses
where I went by rickety, seemingly enduring streetcar
and could imagine a childhood, kicking in kne--trousers against
                                                        the seat,
but ash of Vesuvic and home-come late in nightfall
darken my summer
                                and the chill of any dead
                                so perfectly remembered, my Italy