The Roofs of Siena

rise above green, all oranges and browns,
sunbaked and permanent. In niches between bricks
pigeons roost, come out to peck at crumbs

left by the laughing students in the grass
who smoke and eat sandwiches on the church steps.
In bright air and sudden shafts of sunlight

business goes on in streets, coffee and papers,
whirring brushes of street-cleaning machines,
tourists led by guides who herd their flocks

with waving green batons or red umbrellas
and shout the ages of buildings in French, German,
Japanese, English. Here everyone speaks everything,

while grim-faced church employees
throw out lit candles to clear space for more,
and stiletto-heeled women await stylish lovers.

In the churches, keeping what they know
strictly to themselves, the incorruptibles
watch us, watch everything from their glass cases.