Dear Italy, I’m sorry.
I am sorry I can’t say anything
to your hazy mountainside of olive trees
rising outside our Romanesque window
opened like the door of a confessional.
I’m sorry I have
no words, not even in English,
for the colors in the roof tiles,
floorboards, and nicely chilly tiles underfoot
in il bagno, where another window
is an open door on me, abashed.  
Walls of biscuit-color, pinkish chalky
hues of timeless art in clay,
baked or raw. I’m sorry I can’t put this
in terza rima or Dante’s words
when I can’t even ask where to park
our rented Fiat after the hair-raising drive
up to another one of your little ancient towns.
Mi dispiace. It displeases me.
That’s how your people say they’re sorry–
a brief fermata in the sensual melody
of life, sitting outside a cafe all day
in the piazza of a hilltop town in Umbria.
There, last night, children were kicking a soccer ball
that landed, splat, on the outdoor table
of grownups at dinner and a man yelled in Italian
and the children scattered like mice.
I want to say, for those children,
how sorry I am. And I’m sorry that
I couldn’t help smiling,
and sorry I am not worthy or wordy enough
and so, so sorry.
Put that in italics. Underline twice.

–Treve, Italy, June 15, 2015