Entering, through the medium
of memoria, achieves the parable
of Proust: the aroma
of Italianata, opera of olfactory,
blood–gnosis spinning me back
over these scored plank floors
grouted with appassionata
to Sundays after Mass fifty years ago,
when Larimer Avenue was Paradiso
and my parents held the hands
of my sister and me as we processed
along Labriola’s aisles
of melanzano, romas, Fiorella
pears, pews of garlic, basilico.
