Gerald Stern

BARE BONES

Imagine you at the beginning of thelongest walk of yourshoes, socks, toothpaste, hats, and the otherrip-rap, nothing of watches or water, sleepingon the ground or in hay,setting out for the east, for Padua,for Venice, no knowledge of the churches you’d pass or the paintingsor frescoes inside, say Giotto, no friends anywherealong the way, no phone numbers, not even a walletwith a card inside for identity, not even yourpassport as I recall, everything stashed atJeremy Gentile’s, he of the small motorcycle,of the stocks and bonds, he of the bad English cooking,and the walk to Bologna, then Florence, all before thelong sleep in the Boboli Gardens, this was myschooling, my graduate work,my fellowship from God,starting with a lake.