Spring 1991 • Vol. XIII No. 2 PoetryApril 1, 1991 |

The Provisional Life

The weavers let down their blinds against the sun's brass blare. A woman framed in a window looks over the terraced tiles drinking soup from a cup. She has turned her back on us in the middle of the fifteenth century to watch her officious father scurry toward the sweat baths. If she leaned forward on her elbows she would glimpse Signorelli's young assistant tipping backward on the scaffold, his sandal snag as he plunges through the circles of blood and passion and shit of the impotent world.

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