Amphitheatres on peaks
Where Roman towns have vanished.
What were they thinking, the architects?
The growling slaves, roped in
To hack and haul above the tree-line?
Assimilating Caesar's splendour -
Rubble villa, red-tile roof,
Rugs under dust-pale olive trees
Older than Roman stone.
The delicate incendiary crackle
Of cigarettes on drowsy afternoons;
Hot tea, in fluted glasses,
And music, goat-bells on the hill.
Clown-cars, laden,
Sunny bicycles,
The cedar-honey breeze -
Something is wearing the world as a mask
Slow dissolve
Misty precipice
Qi
