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.
