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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 10, Number 3, September 2016

Gary LeBel
Cumming, Georgia, USA

To Giorgione

Sometimes I look for Giorgione's meadow whenever I see a patch of
unburdened green while locked in traffic, nailed to a freeway in
Birmingham, Cincinnati or Atlanta.

And at times when my imagination rises up on its haunches,
stretching like a cat after a much-needed nap,

I can feel
those diaphanous, cloudlike sleeves,
the velveteen cap,
the lute's svelte body
couched in my lap,

and the slow, drowsy shake of the topmost leaves, and over a rise,
a hint of the sea above the soft light murmurings of our small company.

But even in this stammering dream of an idyll, still I wonder as I sit with
ease on the grass beneath the loving torch of the sun, why my friend and
I are dressed and the ladies are not.

       Tell me, Master,
       speak here to our scene:
       is it merely
       that what men are prone to conceal
       the soul of a woman feels free to reveal?

How much of irony and suffering
will beg an answer
to that question down the
centuries to come

        while the lilt of my
cadence, the tilt of our
laughter, the words that we
speak, the charm of our
guests and the wry,
knowing glances bandied
between friends,

the cold sweet water drawn fresh from the well,

all gone,

poisoned by a false complexity where

la resistenza รจ feudale



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