Text of "Investiture at Cecconi's"

INVESTITURE AT CECCONI'S 

                                    for David Kalstone

Caro, that dream (after the diagnosis)

found me losing patience outside the door of

"our" Venetian tailor. I wanted evening

clothes for the new year.

Then a bulb went on. The old woman, she who

stitches dawn to dusk in his back room, opened

one suspicious inch, all the while exclaiming

over the late hour--

Fabrics? patterns? those the proprietor must

show by day, not now -- till a lightning insight

cracks her face wide: Ma! the Signore's here to

try on his new robe!

Robe? She nods me onward. The mirror tryptich

summons three bent crones she diffracted into

back from no known space. They converge by magic,

arms full of moonlight.

Up my own arms glistening sleeves are drawn. Cool

silk in grave, white folds--Oriental mourning--

sheathes me, throat to ankles. I turn to face her,

uncomprehending.

Thank your friend, she cackles, the Professore!

Wonderstruck I sway, like a tree of tears. You--

miles away, sick, fearful-- have yet arranged this

heartstopping present.

Raritan (Winter 1987), 12-13; Collected Poems (New York: Knopf, 2002), 580.