A band plays out in the streets of Florence.
Distantly, resounding within the winter light
that is so much like summer in Michigan.
Thick, and brief, the color of an apple’s skin.
I hang out the window, into the light and the noise.
It grows in proportion and clarity, less like
the inside of a tin can. The pretty, angular
Argentine is on her cot, reading poems in
Italian. She reads them aloud, she is deep
in shadow, the room the soft color of death,
her body like a silent film. I do not
understand as she continues to read. Her toes
curl eloquently against my back. The sheets
rustle and sigh. Her toes speak very plainly
of purling water. The band marches past
in the vestigial light, first the banners, then
the horns. Lastly, the drums, sending a shudder
through the window frame and the bed, the
finite architecture of her feet. Their seismic
shocks fade around the corner, and soon there
is only her voice and its impenetrable, loquacious syllables.