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