The road is a hard road,
and the river is wadded and flattened outDue west of Santa Maria dell'Ortolo.
Each morning I drove with its steady breathing right to my right,
Dawn like a courtier
With his high white hat just coming into the room,
Ponte Pietra cut in the morning gauze,
Catullus off to my leftReleased in the labials of the sunlight,
Fire on the water,
daylight striking its matchWherever it pleased
Along the Adige and stitched cross-tiles of San Fermo . . .
What do I do with all this?
PhlegethonHe must have crossed,
Dante, I mean,His cloak like a net as he glided and stepped over the stones.
I hurry on by, breakfast
In mind, and the day's duty, half-left at the bivio.
Our outfit was out in town,
in hiding, spiked fence and three ChevroletsIn front when I pulled up for roll call
And the morning mail and settling in,
DiCenzo signed out for Udine, and Joe for Vienna.
All day the river burned by my desk
as I sailed my boats down its licks for a foot or so.
from The Other Side of the River