At Noon

                      Civitella

Alem at the window; see her 

white cloth, her hands

in yellow gloves, and darkness

behind her.  As she waves,

everywhere the clamor of birds 

dissonant, insistent;

Matteo on the steps reading 

BolaΖo, then voices – 

radio?  At the black window

her yellow hands open.

Good Morning! Gaby is calling

from the tower, then Elem

herself slips behind the glass, so

all you can see is white

moving, her cloth flat, circling, 

and a swerve of swallows

plunges the courtyard.  If I were

painting this, I’d take green 

for shadow, edera – ivy

climbing the well;  for light

the wall bleached paler than amber;

and for mystery, the arch

half wood, half open to the dark.

Matteo is closing 

his book, a telephone ringing 

and now from the kitchen 

plates clatter and silverware, as

higher up, a back-flip

of yellow.  The sun is blaring

so I’m half-blind, every

color spun, whitened, shimmering. 

A fracas of bird call 

breaks like a wave across the air, 

as in the next window

a white blown rose and yellow, yellow

rising like a child’s sun.