when an old man came, smoking, and sat on the stone bench next to mine,
and positively glared at me; obviously I was in his spot.
He said nothing and neither did I, so thus positioned we remained.
Then an uccello, in the form of a man.
He whistled so powerfully and with such exuberant trillings, up and down,
I knew he surely once had been a bird, or soon would be.
He was, it seemed, unable not to whistle.
And these were not idle tweetings, but true birdsong, lusty and vigorous.
He was so connected with being a bird that
it was stunning. He ceased his whistling only to make a call
on his cell phone and, once finished, he whistled again, walking away.
I wanted so to follow him, but I needed to stay put, and wait.
Finally, il caro mio appeared, not from the right,
as I'd expected, but from the left, from whence there is nothing,
only God knows why. . .