Sunday, November 27, 2005

Friday 18 November 2005 (III)


I told you that I don’t trust memories to photographs

something so static could never capture
anything so fluid

but didn’t finish that thought

a photo will never express
the late afternoon grit of a Roman summer or
wandering lost in Trastevere

I need to draw a map on your chest

my apartment building(s), the morning market(s)

the cemetery in San Lorenzo where I napped
under trees and shared my lunch with stray cats

press against you
a sun so hot it sears your skin
cool tiles & thick shutters that balance the heat

a picture will never be
the sound of an old woman
screaming into the courtyard every Sunday morning at six

the sound of an old woman
screaming on the midnight train from Venice

I’ll need to circle your ear
murmur you from a deep sleep
eyelids fluttering to a far away voice

I will describe watching Badlands in a park
my tongue writing words
along the roof of your mouth

mark the lines of your hips, small nips
for riding bus 64 between termini and the Vatican
notorious for pickpockets and molesters

but we move to the next photo the next gallery the next day

with me only reaching part way and you not wanting to pry

1 Comments:

Blogger Vincent Ponka said...

Seriously: a great poem.

8:27 AM  

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