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This poem is taken from PN Review 232, Volume 43 Number 2, November - December 2016.

Why? Joey Connolly
     to mimic the slow pass
of memory, the glassy recollection of a cheap print
of a painting by Bonnard in the university bedroom
of an old friend.        to pass the time:
to go past it, into the space of a page.
       as an excuse to sit, handled by the August sun
on a fourth-story Turinese balcony,
swallowed by the late afternoon heat
and Peter Sarstedt playing from inside,
moving your toes in a pool of shade cast
by the laundry drying on the storey above.       
to bring tokens of then and now into brief relation,
a lamp-shadowed, concentrating face into the
bright but declining North Italian sunlight.
       to prove something false about the endurance
of feeling the sun on one’s face.       
...


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