Big Morning in Rome
In the hot magenta of a dark alley,
a photoallergic inamorato sees the lady of his life
and wants nothing more.
He rushes through porticos and tourist crowds
who wave positive cardio images
in the chiaroscuro of endless fog.
The lady waits on the imperial staircase,
standing still like the thick water of the flower vases,
dressed in festering wounds.
The eternal city is drowned,
or alternatively lowered as the first volunteer
into melted ruby chocolate.
Meanwhile in the fifth-floor suite of Hotel Eden,
curtains move back and forth,
as if searching for their why
in the woven paradise lost
in the rich brocade.
Under the weathered layers of history,
you trace the corners of my mouth
and the eyelids, almost undamaged.
Without pity or forgiveness,
show me everything
as steps in the drifting sand
until there’s nothing
but a big morning in Rome
set to quaver
as an indication of sacrifice.