The terrace is a tier of flame tonight,
a lavish send-off to the day,
the red sea curling in the stony cove,
the town lights flickering, a mass of candles
on the dusky shore. Goodbye, I wave,
as long-limbed vines begin to chitter
and the rose-thorns dig, their chafers glinting.
Arum lilies blow their hornlike buds.
Behind my house, the bare-faced cliff
maintains a solitary crooked grin
as if it knows what I have done
or left undone, my desultory sins.
But now it’s over, I pretend, near dark,
lifting my arms in racy wind—
white wind that fits me like a loose soutane.
The moon’s a wafer dipped in blood.
Signore, I could leave it all tonight.
I could rise—all flutter, whip, and burn.