The Foundling Wheel: At the Liguria Study Centre in Bogliasco

Karen (a sculptor from New York)and her boyfriend John(a fireman)asked (at table in the Villa dei Pini)if I would like to jaunt alongto the hill townher grandmother hailed from.

(But, odd thing, she wouldnever dwell upon.Karen knew nothingbut the name.)

Castle of the AngelMountain of Sorrow(or some such inspiration).

"Can't. No. But thanks."

(I am already gone and back againfrom a slanted chiaroscuroof an empty square, ticking downwith an almost angry off beatinto the inertia of history.)

(What is already doneis hardly worth doing.)

At table, after, in the Villa of PinesKaren and John, solemntold of how the manwith his finger in the bookshad waved his other nonchalant hand. "You'll never know.This is the name they gave the little onewho fell to earth from nowhere."

(And so it was that every habitationhad a different name or namesto pick them out, to make it plainthat they belonged to no one.)

It might mean—Abandoned.It might mean—Found.It might mean—Unknown.It might mean—Innocent.It might mean—Jasmine.It might mean—Luck.It might mean—God wanted like this.

"The wheel," I said."The wheel," I breathed.I knew about the wheel.

It swung out from the convent walland you kissed the baby, once, twiceand then again

or quickly, quickly as you couldknocking an elbow or a tiny footthrust it into the depths

(maybe a hopeful tokentucked into the cleftof a shawl, some leftsuch a sign)

and swung it to, swung it away from youswung it shut.

And then, in so short a whilean email from New Yorkabout how John(a fireman)had died of an insult to his lungs. He had ranged the ruinsand breathed the airof that inimical time.

The timethe towers fellagain and again and again.