"What do I do with this?"

Driving to Passalacqua, 1960

The road is a hard road,

and the river is wadded and flattened out

Due 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 left

Released in the labials of the sunlight,
Fire on the water,

daylight striking its match

Wherever it pleased
Along the Adige and stitched cross-tiles of San Fermo . . .

What do I do with all this?

Phlegethon

He 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 Chevrolets

In 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.

Charles Wright
from The Other Side of the River