Then it was back into green—
scattered shrubs, as the structures of
modernity fell one by one into the past,
out of the loco-motive picture projected
in the window and onto the painted landscapes
of Etruscan countryside;

pines, patterned across the fields like cloistral guardians;
miracle patches of pure-white lilies and dandelions;
in the waxy leaves of olive trees
an appian breeze, gentle and nature's surest force—

and all of it moving, not just in
parametric rhythm, but past,
above, through me, more always than image,
tempting tactile imagination like Donatello:

all of it there gently up body,
patiently my soul, as I, hylomorphic union,
simply sat, head on glass, sun filtering through