Quite different from the Filippo Lippi fresco  
We saw yesterday in Scarperia, which really  

Wasn’t but had been thought was, but was  
Never lost because to become lost you have  

To be ready to become found and if not ready, 
Then you’re lost forever, until you’re ready,  

The time we were on the archeological dig 
In Jerusalem and everyone kept bumming  

My Winston-Salem’s, my forlornness had  
Sunk in at that point, and I’ve been a slalomist  

Ever since, and how often the two of us  
Thought it best to use an ur-language here  

Or an S language when we’re feeling strange,  
As sometimes happens, especially in the early  

Morning, but lost works, not just words lost,  
But notes, for the sackbut, which we can’t play,  

For the curved cornett, which we can’t play,  
The knives of Andrea Berti we saw in Scarperia,  

One from Jacopo Carucci’s (il Pontormo), La Cena in 
Emmaus, now lost, the knife, and we were trying to remember  

If we saw a knife on the table in Michelangelo  
Merisi’s (il Caravaggio) La Cena in Emmaus, now lost,  

The knife, if there had even been one, that is, the stranger  
Met on the road to Jerusalem, ten kilometers to Jerusalem,  

His backpack stuffed with lost opere, hungry, not having  
Eaten since what he thought was his last supper, a boy in  

The field with sheep, drawing what could be a sheep on  
A smooth stone, in Vicchio, we saw that, near Il Cedro, now lost.