We were, you might say, dangling over the buried city.
If this villa had a cellar, its floor would be the ceiling
—tap it—to another, in shallow strata, but irreality
in this case went all the way down, then back up, reeling
(so to speak) in the accoutrements of a lost beau monde.
Who was I there? A guest, a voyeur, a vagabond.
There are wolves and there are foxes and there are ptarmigans and there are agents and there are women you can pay to kick you in the balls with the sharp patent toe of a shoe you bought them for that express purpose. There are politicians who are famous. There are famous actors and then there are men who are not only beautiful and charming but are born with something extra.