We were supposed to do a job in Italy

    and， full of our feeling for

    ourselves （our sense of being

    Poets from America） we went

    from Rome to Fano， met

    the Mayor， mulled a couple

    matters over. The Italian literati seemed

    bewildered by the language of America： they asked us

    what does "flat drink" mean？ and the mysterious

    "cheap date" （no explanation lessened

    this one's mystery）。 Among Italian writers we

    could recognize our counterparts： the academic，

    the apologist， the arrogant， the amorous，

    the brazen and the glib. And there was one

    administrator （The Conservative）， in suit

    of regulation gray， who like a good tour guide

    with measured pace and uninflected tone

    narrated sights and histories

    the hired van hauled us past.

    Of all he was most politic——

    and least poetic—— so

    it seemed. Our last

    few days in Rome

    I found a book of poems this

    unprepossessing one had written： it was there

    in the pensione room （a room he'd recommended）

    where it must have been abandoned by

    the German visitor （was there a bus of them？） to whom

    he had inscribed and dated it a month before. I couldn't

    read Italian either， so I put the book

    back in the wardrobe's dark. We last Americans

    were due to leave

    tomorrow. For our parting evening then

    our host chose something in a family restaurant，

    and there we sat and chatted， sat and chewed， till，

    sensible it was our last big chance to be Poetic， make

    our mark， one of us asked

    "What's poetry？

    Is it the fruits and vegetables

    and marketplace at Campo dei Fiori

    or the statue there？" Because I was

    the glib one， I identified the answer

    instantly， I didn't have to think—— "The truth

    is both， it's both！" I blurted out. But that

    was easy. That was easiest

    to say. What followed taught me something

    about difficulty，

    for our underestimated host spoke out

    all of a sudden， with a rising passion， and he said：

    The statue represents

    Giordano Bruno， brought

    to be burned in the public square

    because of his offence against authority， which was to say

    the Church. His crime was his belief

    the universe does not revolve around

    the human being： God is no

    fixed point or central government

    but rather is poured in waves， through

    all things： all things

    move. "If God is not the soul itself，

    he is the soul OF THE SOUL of the world." Such was

    his heresy. The day they brought him forth to die

    they feared he might incite the crowd （the man

    was famous for his eloquence）。 And so his captors

    placed upon his face

    an iron mask

    in which he could not speak.

    That is how they burned him.

    That is how he died，

    without a word，

    in front of everyone. And poetry——

    （we'd all put down our forks by now， to listen to

    the man in gray； he went on softly）—— poetry

    is what he thought， but did not say.