Some Evenings

Some Evenings

say, in Rome, one feels a gnawing
nostalgia to be precisely where one is,
to be there more fully than 
it is perhaps possible to be, 
spinning in the center of the Piazza
di Spagna to take it all in,
but especially the shutters the blue 
of robins’ eggs found when 
one was a child, opened or closed
artfully, as if the people who live
in the building where a plaque declares
a composer you’ve never heard of
much less heard lived and died,
conspired to make it picture perfect,
though you don’t take a picture,
having left your phone behind,
which is why you’re looking up.