Al Fresco

Jet-black flat-topped cumulus that is
Orvieto towering behind, for lack
Of a Pensione I snuggle
Lengthwise beneath a shadowy nexus
Of vines, Bacchic baldacchino -
Tendrils sprung from the hard dry ground,
Rucksack my pillow, books as down,
Air-conditioning ad infinitum...
Neither wake nor sleep, the semi-consciousness
That goes for each recasting the sound
Of crickets as Marconi's All-Night
Orchestra. Stars. Cold. Rustlings. In the dimness
Just above my head dawn bunched tight and dangling
Unseen green bulbs, a breakfast of light.