Forget all the boyfriends you have never made peace with
because meanwhile men have never looked better in their
tight pants. And women with their great legs angled just so
ride sky blue Vespas as nightfall gluts the street
with an incredible clatter of orange crates and aluminum scales.
Forget the end of every movie you have ever seen
because riding the bus past Firenze’s orange roofs
and their myriad bisecting angles is enough turbulence
and resolution for one blessed day. Forget how you look
in a bathing suit and your passionate yearning to be twenty-two:
here you are on the altar of all good things pressed down
where the azure vaults of the transcendent churches
collect gold stars thick as pastina you can lick off a spoon;
where fiery wings of travailing angels are by osmosis
making you astoundingly rich and beautiful. Carissima spirit,
forget being born again, you’ve tried that too many times.
Try something useful, like buying a pair of those pointy, sequined
shoes that could make an American geometry class fall on its knees
to right angles; then, take the stupid things you have done
for a walk past the setting domes of western civilization!
You really were born here and that is enough to get you started,
to make you rapturous and ready to fall in love again with,
among other things, the fabulous bread of your fortunate life.