Between the steep-pitched slate roofs:
the valley, its flights of steps
and terraces and arbors
of brown vines; then the new bridge,
its cat's-cradle of cables,
and beneath in the granite cleft
a glimpse of the knife-grey river—
the water the same color
as the sky beyond the outcropping
of spire and dormer and belvedere . ..

Across the bridge, swinging
into the Square (it is much as we
pictured it, traveling), we park
only a short walk from the Grand Hotel.

Below our window, a couple hunch
shoulder to shoulder on a parapet
that overlooks the tennis court, puddled
with sky, and the stacks of cafe chairs
and tables where a lean dog skulks
nosing this way and that.
The sky is lighter now. Behind us
the turned-back bedding smells of rain.

A thousand miles south, blue peaks
beyond peaks in the rearview mirror,
the road from the cordillera
pauses between yellow facades with paintless
shutters; dogs and children
sit beside bead-curtained doorways.
In the Governor's Palace
we gaze down into the display
of parchments, heavy coins, embroidered gloves.
The room is buttressed with slants
of dusty sunlight. Alone with each other,
there is terror in our footfalls.
In the Governor's apartment,
the velours drapery of the monumental bed
has faded to the color of dried blood.

The northern sky is paler still.
In the cafe-bar that opens on the Square
we are honored by the Crown Prince [no stanza break]
and his brother, their delicate hands
almost as white as their starched cuffs,
their eyes darker than their pin-striped suits.

From the back of a van four guardsmen
in black rain-capes manhandle
a coffin and lug it through the low door
to the crypt of the Royal Chapel.
We and the brothers are the only onlookers.
His Royal Highness, the Prince's brother,
explains: It is the coffin of our sister.
She died in another country.
The coffin is empty. There are no remains.