I turned forty the year I wrote it
  all down, every bit
  I could remember:

One can, she says, rewrite the story so it
becomes a progress-tale , a Bildungsroman ,
at the end of which our protagonist,

Not male, not Jew. Impersonator, you
slink the kipa behind the Stetson, hat
the bully blond claims he wants to buy.

The restless pass the night hours in company
  forever about in the town; though many
  at half past three admit to being lonely.

Sweet neighbor of the green forest 
Eternal guest of April in bloom 
Archenemy of the brambleberry 

In a filmy stench of slaughterhouse
I see the image of my body, half-naked,
ignored, almost dead. This is the way,

O barbarian’s pupil-eye encircled
by the sun-born verdure of the Po!
Italy has only one morning of life,

It isn’t May-like, this impure air
which darkens the foreigners’ dark
garden still more, then dazzles it

I saw my name in print the other day
with 1932 and then a blank
and knew that even now some grassy bank

in the black hood, 
come! Pierce 
my heart