(after Shirley Hazzard)




In the vicoli

the great heft

of Neapolitan washing

flaps above me,

driven by winds

that might have ancient names

or simply be cattivi,

sucked out and back

as if the streets themselves

are breathing.

Somewhere in the

closed chapel of Sansevero

lies the veiled Christ

in his wrappings

miraculously light

as this bleached and hoisted lot,

the afterbirth of his crown of thorns

discarded by his side.

A short walk on

and the markets are awash

with cloth

from god knows where.

Later in a darkened shop

—the Lavanderia—

a patient expat helps me explain

exactly what I need in a bottle

Aspete, signora, this one, right?

Aspete enunciated in the local

becomes asssh—pet,

a meaning so close, too close

for what it is

that really hangs above this town.

On purchase, I make a poor answer.

What did I wait for here

but the fine white

of not knowing

falling all over me.