Hot bucket of soap poured like fluid quartz onto the sidewalk, 

Cleansed steam rising from the pavement by the jeweler’s.

Wrinkled men sell silver-shimmering gems of fish and olives 

out of the back of their rusty tin vans. 

On a translucent Sunday the beekeeper has come down 

from the mountains: she sells luminous jars of amber chestnut 

honey and golden eucalyptus honey and the dense crystals 

of heather honey into my eager hands.

The dog must visit the florist selling the chalices of flesh-eating 

plants and the laughing baker clapping his palms with mineral dust 

of flour; through his iron gates the dog likes to bark. Next we stroll 

onto the concrete pier of the closed steel plant.

Aquamarine riches of sea below, white-hot ring of sun above,

and on the piazza the green palm fans glitter in the light. The aged

dealers of diesel polish the chrome columns of their trade, selling

gentlemanly smiles with a ‘buon’ giorno.’

Grandmotherly fumes of laundry and lunch lure us back into

our ancient tower; alarming cracks run through its brittle bricks.

At night the Phlegrean Fields bathe in the sulfurous stench of

terror, earth shudders, old buildings bend.

In the dark Michele sells pizza with pools of ruby sauce and 

diamonds of fior di latte; the amulet of Maradona’s face 

graces his muscled arm. Out on the street the fearsome 

sleep in the great heart lockets of their cars.