Fontegaia burbles on. I wonder who understands this.


Proud Guidoriccio (upon his stallion
clad in rich honey-gold and black) still rides
over the blank space of an absent mappamondo.
Year after year, mesmerized horsemen

replay the triumph of their city-state.
Res publica del popolo - an April quattrocento
renascence - young lovely Sienese (memento
) twirling the ridda hand-in-hand, sweet

and sedate... (O Primavera). Plague
brought down the curtain on them all.
Only a somber scolding wraith (dismal
Baptist with bare talon-toes) raged

through the chastened aftermath.
The merchants (in their wills) heaped
ashes on their brows. The Reaper reaped.
Wheedling warlords waded in (bloodbath).

Yet... neither libertine nor puritan, bells
drone on. Sound like an iron whisper
flows in waves across the sleepy air.
An equilibrium (Diana, Dionysius).

Like the slowest horse in the race - Ramirez
hobo-caballero, con crayon - swaying
King Bumblebee, atop dawdling (braying)
donkey (or sleepy waiter Biff - sez

the magic circus-word is : hippopotamus)
riding an iron horse through his peculiar
tunnel of love (Chet's trumpet, silver).
And the iron rose through disaster (us)

and the rust of river-water - through
august Augustus, Augustine's hip hippo, all
wolverine Rome, cavernous Constantinople -
til it roosted in a glinting horseshoe

buried in speechless soil (black earth
of curious Rus). Like the copper penny
of a saturnine pilgrim - unearthed now,
uncanny. So the Campenone berthed.

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