That April, for instance,to watch a storm blow in from the gulf,cloud-front shoring ranks on the horizon,arrowheads of swallows slicing a wind                strong enough to set their wings on fire,but not the weather so much as the place itself,                 how my daughter scampered up a treeso she could comprehend the viewdown-mountain to the plains of Paestum,               how the resident sheepdogleaped into the air to bring down lemonsfrom the branches he could reach.                                That kind of desire.That readiness for satisfaction.To be wrung out, my sodden heart,                by any visible thing.How the raised arms of the vineyardcalled down the atmosphere, made it ring.Grilled artichokes on the road to Pompeii                with the flavor of the Underworld in them.The rain, astonished into four minutes of hail.                                And Etruscan honey.And my small son’s wish to be a conquering god,                  which he dared speak aloud.No matter. The Temple of Poseidon was busy                casting long, indifferent shadows.                        The whole re-invaded town so ruined                                by its ancient hangover,even the wine spoke with a Greek accent there.