Give me this time, my first and severe 
Italian, a poem about gold, 
The left corners of eyes, and the heavy 
Night of the locomotives that brought me here, 
And the heavy wine in the old green body, 
The glass that so many have drunk from. 
I have brought my bottle back home every day 
To the cool cave, and come forth 
Golden on the left corner 
of a cathedral's wing: 

White wine of Bologna, 
And the knowing golden shadows 
At the left corners of Mary Magdalene's eyes, 
While St. Cecilia stands 
Smirking in the center of a blank wall, 
The saint letting her silly pipes wilt down, 
Adoring 
Herself, while the lowly and richest of all women eyes 
Me the beholder, with a knowing sympathy, her love 
For the golden body of the earth, she knows me, 
Her halo faintly askew, 
And no despair in her gold 
That drags thrones down 
And then makes them pay for it. 

Oh, 
She may look sorry to Cecilia 
And 
The right-hand saint on the tree, 
But 
She didn't look sorry to Raphael, 
And 
I bet she didn't look sorry to Jesus, 
And 
She doesn't look sorry to me. 
(Who would?) 
She doesn't look sorry to me. 

She looks like only the heavy deep gold 
That drags thrones down 
All day long on the vine. 
Mary in Bologna, sunlight I gathered all morning 
And pressed in my hands all afternoon 
And drank all day with my golden-breasted 

Love in my arms.