|After sex, we went out to find our eyes
in the dusty wells of espresso cups.
You produced at least two good ideas
we weren’t able to pursue
after the man with the cello threw us off
the jagged cliffs of his Donizetti.
Even the bottles of water shut up.
|In that light a sparrow worked our crumbs.
Some planets moved.
Three punks rolled joints beneath Bruno,
whose memory refused to burn.
|At five, someone came selling lodestones.
Beautiful waitresses plied the cops with booze.
Priests wept in their prosecco.
|And all the while, children with bare feet
kicked the lost head of a statue,
cheering each time they scored a goal,
and we knew that even in Rome,
here in the Campo di Fiori,
where everyone came or left with a bouquet,
where the shadows, we hardly believed,
had turned into wine,
we could not keep our secrets to ourselves.