Goodbye To Matthea Harvey Poem by Bernard Henrie

One day a traveler returns holding a bouquet of faux violets,
dry stems of memory, the chirr (of what?) grasshoppers
trilling on a terrace; a wood partridge rattling a chain?
I pay a sentimental visit to the offices of Botteghe Oscure,
my father's first publisher, second story landing, mildewed
magazines in humid air, a fine dust on the top of cabinets.
Rome stirs the dead heart of Lazarus; blistered, patched
and exquisite; pink nymphs painted on the plaster of vaulted
ceilings; in my hotel lobby a quetzal opens wet wings, gold
and green in drab water. Olive oil glimmers on the sideboard
sotte voce as restaurants change to dinner menus, we drink
an Armagnac that throbs and clings to the tongue; a slouch
Borsalino, a buttoned cloak against the damp of a palazzo.
Her voice beside the Debussy; frail clavicle bones lightly
rising under a pearl blouse; brushed hair of the cotton burr;
her slightly skewed left leg, hardly noticeable as she walks.
Street lights come on, a lemon tint of street lights and dusk.
Did you wave goodbye to me? or the unseasonable weather?
The airport bus doors open (accordion like) and an Autumn
palette of colors rush in badly branded by Texas cattlemen;
a red wind furls a bandana of dry leaves around your head.