In the Grips of a Sickness Transmitted by Wolves

Sorrento, at night the long fingers of your orange lights Prick me in the sizzling streets, where the pinnacles Of other people ring tinny and papier-mâché. Is this the way Up to the murderous cliff? It’s most important that I get there And leave no witness. Ah, is this the majolica medallion Which marks the grave of girl abducted by a stallion Whom she gave a lump of maple sugar? For that was in an autumn, The time of year when young girls get hopeless and feel like Giving it all away, the way a matronly merchant Might brush off her lap, at the iron end of the market day: It’s over, it’s worthless, without deserving and without Purpose have I nourished this hope in my small patch of earth, A sickly weed whose nodding sun’s gone nova.