by Liana Scalettar

Goethe’s Italy isn’t
Ours. In Termini, while nearby stone angels teeter and vibrate, their molecules aquiver like anyone else’s, their lyres and harps sounding to those who can still hear such threnodies and hymns, their tunics soft-falling, their river-watching stalwart, we linger too long over water and what used to be called cornetti, our eyes too rheumy to gobble up all that goldenrod Naples yellow with which we’re surrounded.

Soon.
Soon.
It is unlike me when faced by beauty to admit – in order to care for you more fully – defeat.

• Welcome to Entasis.