In Rome

In Rome not a disaster
found deer ticks in the cabbage
dreamt I urinated in Keat's deathbed
sniffed ether in a slum
with an Italian poet
walking back to the hotel
I felt hollow-headed spider webs
soft mysterious gift bag
full of vitamins and drugs
a loft with beautiful people
playing guitars and drinking heavily
from a spigot inserted in a cask of wine
ate mushrooms stuffed with crabmeat
dressed up in a tight purple crushed
velvet suit read poems in Italian
to a crowd of artists who gave
me food an olive oil massage
a deep blue fork
with a laminated pope pious
walked to a monument
and wept on the airplane out: wept
again Rome was hazy but comfortable.