Honeymoon

They have seen the Netherlands, they are returning to Terre Haute;
But one summer night, here they are in Ravenna,
On your back spreading your knees
Of four limp legs all swollen with bites.
We raise the sheet to better scratch.
Less than a league from here is Saint Apollinaire
In Classe, a basilica known to amateurs
Of acanthus capitals swirled by the wind.

They'll take the eight o'clock train
Prolong their miseries from Padua to Milan
Where are the Last Supper, and a cheap restaurant.
He thinks about tips, and writes his balance sheet.
They will have seen Switzerland and crossed France.
And Saint Apollinaire, stiff and ascetic,
God's old abandoned factory, still stands
In its crumbling stones the precise form of Byzantium.

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