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And the Renaissance-- I think
when I was writing this book,

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I was thinking about the
difference between reality

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and expectation and
how you think things

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are going to go a certain way.

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And what happens is usually,
like, nine times out of 10,

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something totally different.

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And I was thinking about
that in terms of history,

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in terms of
relationships, in terms

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of how you live in
the present and trying

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to reconcile reality
with expectation,

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and maybe to just kind of
get rid of that whole thing.

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"Return Via Two Renaissances
to a Distinct Unmasking."

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Santa Maria Novella,
14th century.

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"When she asks what
you've seen, you say,

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shadow, Firenze
is full of shadow.

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You've never been to Italy
but declare undying love

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for da Firenze's ballata.

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You love the idea of
voice as an instrument,

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that two is not
two but dissonance.

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Romeo and Juliet, et cetera.

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You've brought time and tools--

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stopwatch, hacksaw,
an electric blowtorch

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from your hidden overgrown shed.

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It's in the wrist.

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The hammer, dear, the nails.

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Perfect cuckolds, frames you've
made of kind, brittle grins.

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The corners sharp,
reaching, each side

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strained against the other.

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Evolution of maestros
and madrigals.

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You're obsessed with legends
of the trecento, drawing

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on rocks with chalk, swearing
your life, too, swung

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toward cathedrals.

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God, through quickening
transference.

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Art is a leap through time.

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Interruptions.

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Not shy but hushed.

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She asks, love me in Italian.

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You trace amare onto her
bare, radiant shoulder.

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The buds of your fingertips
leaving a trail of heat,

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tears as heavenly favor."

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