On the far side of the piazza
under the colonnade,
drenched in darkness
an angel sits.
He stirs the dust in the gutter,
finds the butt of a cigarette
sticks it in his mouth.
He gets up
limps across the square
looking for a light.
The spokes of his wings are a bit bent.
He drags an old shadow.
Your mouth opens and closes.
Words come out.
There’s something different about the colour of your eyes.
Something scurries in the corner.
The bronze on the cenotaph
is melting in the heat.
It’s the colour green.
The riderless horse buckles to its knees;
there’s a whinny of tin and shot screws.
There’s a slice of your face in the sun.
A chime of ice.
A small explosion.
A crash.
Your hand comes up to push back your hair.
Your mouth opens and then closes.
Words come out.
Your hand lands on the table in a pool of light.