The porticoes are sandstone red,
                                 terra cotta, dried blood red.

You stroll inside them, sheltered
                                 from the pressure of the sun.

Arching over the sidewalk,
                                 open at either end, they don’t

trap you the way a building would.
                                 They stripe the light with shadows

of columns receding like trees
                                 along a boulevard, or trees

along the railroad track between
                                 the Fossoli camp and Birkenau

in a black and white photograph
                                 on display with others

from the war, in the noon square
                                 where blinking you emerge.