Poetry takes restraint, quiet and other things that I don’t have. I step up to the corner, Twentieth, the fountains and the Steps. I look up to find a promised family of tourists running and posing in front of the Stairs. I wait comfortable and familiar at the Cirle and I cross the bridge, over the mineral smells and I put all the metal pieces together, silly and satisfied. I stare at the walls, count my things. I burn all my candles and tobacco until it smells good, strong and nostalgic. There’s snow all over the place, scattered in lumps on the corners of buildings. And sure, there are trees covered in little paper lamps, bugs and big wonderful moths. I’ve already been home for years.
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Posted in: Uncategorized
Posted on July 13, 2011
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