Classic Poem

It is good to think of Italy now it is good to think of foreign
Cities where men parade with something in their breasts different
From my breast. I want to think of a city in Italy where a
Friend lives far from his friends and alone. And the sea talks
To him while he sleeps with the dead. And the smells of the streets
Where the sun never comes talk to him of the dead. The beautiful dead.
Christ how the dead become beautiful and young and alive
When I think of them in the mind of my friend Lonely he is
And a proud man who pays no taxes before his wife. Because his
Wife is beautiful he is a shy man and not with too many words.
I remember Italy as a place where the sea touched me as the
Fingers of a woman who understood and the moon was her breast
And there was a poet who said I ought to go to bed early
I will always remember that man he blossomed in the eye.