It takes a thunderstorm at least, the drops
like apples, awakening recollections,
part real, part dreamed,
of cinematic episodes, and of surreal open places; standing
huddled beneath narrow awnings
licking our cones of the rich brown
ice cream that they sell at the store on the corner,
( ‘e speciale, she said; you cannot get
it anywhere else.) watching the merchants
bundling in their wares, artists
retreating to odd corners, everyone
hovering, waiting
for the apples to turn into loaves
of bread, and for the wine
growing mellow on the damp tables,
to be transmuted into gold.
It takes a summer downpour; it takes
a thunderstorm like an angry bull to clear a square this size
in a city like Rome, to wash it down
like some god with a giant mop;
Far better than a mob of policemen
with their whistle-sticks and their stick-like-whistles
ready to declare officially that it is now night,
shutting the square as if it were a nunnery, and restricted,
dousing lights, reducing the fountain’s flow to a trickle,
covering the Four Continents with a veil
of green gauze, chasing dogs,
closing gates you would not have known to have existed;
Searching out the last stragglers
licking the remnants of their rich deserts
from sticky fingers. This rain’s far better:
a gentle admonishment. We drift quietly,
slipping off softly to our respective bedrooms. I
drop a poem as a small gesture
of farewell into the great fountain.
It goes deep, then rises amidst cataracts,
and, excitingly, it floats.
Like some ancient reeded vessel
it bobbles up the Nile River to its source.