We were in the same space but not.
Maybe it was the tragedy in my hands –
dead sons and daughters of Niobe –
the copy we found in Florence.
The tale was not easy to form.
We loved a fine cast of Apollo
too as the sun fell behind the Duomo.
Later in the dark hotel room
only MTV played in English,
my head in fragments of lost drama.
Near the end of our time, I bought
a poster of Marini’s rider, which I have
never framed all these years.