A lady had traveled to Assisi to obtain pardon. Her name was Dame Margaret Florentyne and she came from Rome with other ladies and Knights of Rhodes. Richard asked Margaret in Italian if they could join her party and then continued in English, “Either the tide is going in or going out.” Margaret nodded as if she understood. Dame Margaret experienced herself as discrete lake waves, small encouragements from a larger source, internalized into a lifelong refrain. She was the mirror of fifteenth-century beauty: straight nose, gray eyes, little pink mouth, and skin so smooth it blurred. It was an honor for her to protect a holy woman; she admired Margery’s tears and couldn’t understand a word of her story.

Margaret traveled on pillows in an open horse litter faced in leather on which her coat of arms was stamped in gold.

The skin’s dry heat and the dry grass scent. At night, a woodlark. Richard sang,

The moon does always piss

When she is pale,

When red, she farts, when white,

She wipes her tail.

•

It hurts me to see L. sleep, his long head half-supported by his jacket hanging next to the window; in the crowded coach he is isolated by my desire. We both had our first orgasms when we were about eleven—with a sense of isolation and estrangement from our bodies. L.’s ex died of AIDS. They’d had some unsafe sex. Is that how it will go?—Will sickness weaken L. till he accepts my love?

Nothing can be seen outside except the occasional fog-held glow of a streetlight that burns through our intense reflections: a couple chats, a woman does a crossword puzzle, a man reads a paper. The women wear stylish glasses. Bright dots jump off jewels and wristwatches. The world that appears has the look of the world of appearance.

L.’s eyelashes flutter; he whispers “Bob the Moronist,” and I grin moronically. I can orient myself only with an abridged self-knowledge; I can fulfill myself only by revealing our hidden parts. I reiterate the six hairs on his chest, the brown patch above his cock, and the few curls around his asshole. The air is heavy despite the no-smoking sign. A “scroll of parchment” is pinned to the wall above L.’s head: the word Roma on a ribbon unfurling above medieval towns with towers and ships in a river. Even asleep, L.’s body promises travel.

I keep dropping off. My legs fall against his legs unconsciously and with painful readiness. I’m reluctant to lose control of my limbs in a crowded compartment. Emptiness wants me to yield, order wants me to stay awake.

22