the villa is closed now, not open to the public,

the villa is closed now, not open to the public,
all its holdings covered in white cotton sheets
shaped like ghosts of what they hide from view,
from me and you, we’ll never see them now those
lovely artifacts from a privileged time, sweet
curves to charm the eye, shadow veils the rooms,
the shutters work so well, hiding and closing
works so well, the villa with its bars and locks,
its shutters closed tight and locked, is held
in the grip of an effective refusal, it refuses
us who would have loved it, it was inviting once
but that was long ago and only shows in fading
catalogs, its life lies now in description that
fades on pages stored in random closets and is
called, “the year we went to Italy”