The gentlest flowers,
not separate from the air —
but made out of air.

Indigo night sky,
we walk the steep hill under
spring constellations.

You’re like a stone door,
sealed at the bottom and sides —
even sky shut out.

Blue wings like blue glass,
the bird above the building —
blue glass like blue sky.

Held like a baby,
the instrument is fragile,
music deep inside.

Big Dipper above,
roses in bloom, we’re a pair —
say goodnight, goodnight.

Under Parma sky,
shutters open to the day,
soft stone streets turning.

It keeps returning,
the history we make,
the lives we forget.

The light comes and goes
all day on her face, the hair
Leonardo drew.

The sound their swirl makes —
the black swallows in Parma,
like a plea — or pleas.

First, one sunbathing —
then another comes, tail up,
suddenly there’s six.

The historian —
under cloistered squares of sun,
tries to tell it all.

Swallows diving in,
taking wide ancient circles
in cathedral air.

Through the city streets,
long passageways, wingbeats thump —
we follow the light.

Correggio walks
from dome to dome to dome to
draw out what’s holy.

Long arms at its sides,
the pink baptistry holds firm
at city center.