He died in Rome, in all that sunlight,
the Spanish Steps full of trysting lovers,
Bernini’s watery boat still sinking
in the fountain in the square below.
And even if they weren’t lovers
who crowded the burning steps that day—
but businessmen complaining of the heat,
tired tourists or prowling gigolos—
he had to bear his dark delirium
while the world breathed and sweated outside.
It was no day to die—his tongue dumb
with fever, and all his senses raging
out of tune—The slow continuo
of fountains, weakly pulsing,
a disembodied rhythm robbed of song—
and all that unexpected, wide-flung sky
shattered hourly by bells, the frenzied
flapping of a lone bird’s wings
—determined—in a wilderness of air.
The sunlight fades now, eyes bound burning
within their fleshy lids—they close to see
kaleidoscopes of light, the spectrum suns,
—those fiery self-consuming hearts that blaze
one final time, against finality
like embers flaring in a gust of breath
—when death—the silent, steadfast muse,
the faithful lover—comes to consummate
a long flirtation.