In Italy - 1. Hotel Solferino for Henri Cole Poem by John Koethe

I was somewhere else, then here.
I have photographs to prove it, and new clothes.
Somewhere else: call it an idea
Lingering in the air like the faint smell of a rose
Insensibly near;

Or call it a small hotel
Towards the end of Via Solferino,
With a window open to the sun
And the sounds of automobiles on the street below
And a distant bell.

Call it any time but now,
Only call it unreal. In time's small room
Whatever lies beyond its borders
Couldn't have been, like an imaginary perfume
Nobody knows how

To even dream of again.
I suppose it was an ordinary day
In the extraordinary world where
Nothing ever happens, when in something like the way
A poem begins

I entered upon a street
I'd never imagined before, all the while
Concealed by that close sense of self
I know now is my true home, and by a passive style
That seemed to repeat

My name, that tried to consume
My entire world, that brought me to the entry
Of a small hotel where an image
Of my own face stared at me from another country,
From another room.