There are places where the eye can starve，

    But not here. Here， for example， is

    The Piazza Navona， & here is his narrow room

    Overlooking the Steps & the crowds of sunbathing

    Tourists. And here is the Protestant Cemetery

    Where Keats & Joseph Severn join hands

    Forever under a little shawl of grass

    And where Keats' name isn't even on

    His gravestone， because it is on Severn's，

    And Joseph Severn's infant son is buried

    Two modest， grassy steps behind them both.

    But you'd have to know the story——how bedridden

    Keats wanted the inscription to be

    Simple， & unbearable： "Here lies one

    Whose name is writ in water." On a warm day，

    I stood here with my two oldest friends.

    I thought， then， that the three of us would be

    Indissoluble at the end， & also that

    We would all die， of course. And not die.

    And maybe we should have joined hands at that

    Moment. We didn't. All we did was follow

    A lame man in a rumpled suit who climbed

    A slight incline of graves blurring into

    The passing marble of other graves to visit

    The vacant home of whatever is not left

    Of Shelley & Trelawney. That walk uphill must

    Be hard if you can't walk. At the top， the man

    Wheezed for breath； sweat beaded his face，

    And his wife wore a look of concern so

    Habitual it seemed more like the way

    Our bodies， someday， will have to wear stone.

    Later that night， the three of us strolled，

    Our arms around each other， through the Via

    Del Corso & toward the Piazza di Espagna

    As each street grew quieter until

    Finally we heard nothing at the end

    Except the occasional scrape of our own steps，

    And so we said good-bye. Among such friends，

    Who never allowed anything， still alive，

    To die， I'd almost forgotten that what

    Most people leave behind them disappears.

    Three days later， staying alone in a cheap

    Hotel in Naples， I noticed a child's smeared

    Fingerprints on a bannister. It

    Had been indifferently preserved beneath

    A patina of varnish applied， I guessed， after

    The last war. It seemed I could almost hear

    His shout， years later， on that street. But this

    Is speculation， & no doubt the simplest fact

    Could shame me. Perhaps the child was from

    Calabria， & went back to it with

    A mother who failed to find work， & perhaps

    The child died there， twenty years ago，

    Of malaria. It was so common then——

    The children crying to the doctors for quinine.

    It was so common you did not expect an aria，

    And not much on a gravestone， either——although

    His name is on it， & weathered stone still wears

    His name——not the way a girl might wear

    The too large， faded blue workshirt of

    A lover as she walks thoughtfully through

    The Via Fratelli to buy bread， shrimp，

    And wine for the evening meal with candles &

    The laughter of her friends， & later the sweet

    Enkindling of desire； but something else， something

    Cut simply in stone by hand & meant to last

    Because of the way a name， any name，

    Is empty. And not empty. And almost enough.