The morning of the equinox Begins with brassy clouds and cocks. All the inn's shutters clatter wide Upon fair Umbria. Twitching at my side You burrow in sleep like a red fox.

Mostly these weeks we toss all night, we touch By accident. The heat! The food! Groggily aware of spots that itch I curse the tiny creatures which Have flecked our mended sheets with blood.

At noon in a high wind, to bell and song, Upon the shoulders of the throng, The gilt bronze image of St. So-and-So Heaves precipitously along. Worship has worn away his toe,

Nevertheless the foot, thrust forward, dips Again, again, into its doom of lips And tears, a vortex of black shawls, Garlic, frankinscense, Popery, festivals Held at the moon's eclipse,

As in their trance the faithful pass On to piazza and café. We go deliberately the other way Through the town gates, lie down in grass. But the wind howls, the sky turns color-of-clay.

The time for making love is done. A far off, sulphur-pale facade Gleams and goes out. It is as though by one Flash of lightning all things made Had glimpsed their maker's heart, read and obeyed.

Back on our bed of iron and lace We listen to the loud rain fracture space, And let at first each other's hair Be lost in gloom, then lips, then the whole face. If either speaks the other does not hear.

For a decade love has rained down On our two hearts, instructing them In a strange bareness, that of weathered stone. Thinking how bare our hearts have grown I do not know if I feel pride or shame.

The time has passed to go and eat. Has it? I do not know. A beam of light Reveals you calm but strangely white. A final drop of rain clicks in the street. Somewhere a clock strikes. It is not too late

To set out dazed, sit side by side In the one decent restaurant. The handsome boy who has already tried To interest you (and been half-gratified) Helps us to think of what we want.

I do not know - have I ever known? - Unless concealed in the next town, In the next image blind with use, a clue, A worn path, points the long way round back to The springs we started out from. Sun

Weaker each sunrise reddens that slow maze So freely entered. Now come days When lover and beloved know That love is what they are and where they go.

Each learns to read at length the other's gaze.

                             (James Merrill)

Good poem, even though I don't like Jimmy too much. Thanks. Sashi