No matter what I said,

No matter how I told you,

the columns
still fall

the roads
still grow old

and the vines
drape the necks
of marble molds

In Rome, the forum--
I can think of nothing but
Madison Square
Gardens
and the stone that should be old

I think of the Roman--
and the fields of wheat
I think of man
and the sowing of seed

how fallow the winds,
how empty the streams.

I think of the columns
I think of the streets
I think of the cities
I think of these

And I
could not help but weep.