XI. Vespa Vestals

In the garden of the Virgins, that is,

The garden of the House of the Vestals

(Your sweater draped across your shoulders

As the narrow chill of the evening

Began to ribbon the Forum), you walked

With your head down, silent, a little amused,

But silent. Whatever else exists

In the daily mystery of service & denial

I doubt humor plays much of a part;

Yet there you were,.at the ancient threshold

Of the ruins of the House-thinking

Whatever it was that you were thinking-the lush,

Complicated vines of spring already obscuring

The bare stones of the rooms around us.

Yet for some, I know, a little humor is all

That allows our frail dignity to fall

So far from silence, & service, or fortune....

To begin yet again as if, each time one loved,

One loved as a virgin, helplessly, if faithlessly

Until the life that was once long ago imagined

Begins laughing again, silently, in the ruins.

Copyright World Poetry, Incorporated Mar/Apr 1998
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