Beginning of Summer, 3 days late, Here's hoping for daily poems again!

Homesick

On the eleventh day
I weary of my beloved
Italian,
its noise in my head.
Like wind
it rattles the loose
shutters of English words
I use to cool my rooms.

My mind refuses to translate;
can't hear the conjugated verbs---
so often in the third person,
so often irregular.
I find myself listening only for
the familiar---
the direct address.
The you: present
form, ending almost every time
in i.