all my life, that year, they tried to take my soul from me.
and not like i had a soul,
and not like it was such a prize—
but at least i(t) was black-lunged and thumbed.
although ornate, you are high and flat; untouched,
untouchable, and dumb.
it went on the way i do: alone.
let a ski-masked rapist into my home.
and even in that moment was at least
two.
it’s true: i want to leave.
but i do not want to leave
you.
maybe i have lost my lover
in my wisdom and his error
i know i have cost my lover
euros of late summer grief
but i was briefly what he wanted
beatrice in an overgroomed italian garden
in bvulgari sunglasses and thigh-high boots
all was roses and pomegranates, persimmons
o the pearlike sweetness, the ache
the muscatel, the grapes
in this particular heaven.
what went wrong was nothing, is (that i fell from) this:
can someone please
take a look at the wet dark
in the italian bathtub
look how
the voice continues reading
as all of italy goes dark
in all too brief relief
his wisdom and my error
a thirty years’ body and a six o’clock face
that i am finally for once
the one still
listening
the italian alps to shadow
the text to wet lace.