The Roman ruins at night:
time jagged, broken, and stacked
A short, pot-bellied man serenading us,
his head resting upon a barely-stringed instrument,
as if it were a pillow.
Evening sun filtering through doors of the hilltop church
overlooking Firenze, while two boys from Wales
film the day dying below in slow, yellow time.
Floating among purple jellyfish in a Manarola
cove and not getting stung.
Standing on a hidden rock in the middle
of the Mediterranean against the wet chest
of a new husband.
On a boat anchored next to a thin, rocky beach,
a woman dancing a slow tango to only
the sound of blue.
In medieval paintings, skeletons singing in hell
and camels with many heads drinking blood
pouring out of a woman’s mouth.
Swimming by a gondola, a rat
big as a cat.
In St. Mark’s Square, a fat woman
cackling and screaming at the pigeon on her wrist
alongside a hippy mocking the Charleston,
knees knocking, to make his son laugh.
While we lounge on a terrace close to the sky,
A short time later, an elderly couple below
a woman calling her slippery rhythm through
an open window, just before the bells
of the village tower herald the silence
of the night.
attacking the dirt in their little garden by the sea,
at an hour I normally do not know.