Words wander in sync with churchbells in Bologna.
Under the shadow of its narrows,
light filters through breaks in the buildings,
through tables populated by candlelight,
conversations, from unknown lips
would converge with nightly emergence.
Words, dream initiated thoughtful insomnia,
turn corners in the narrow quarters,
casting lamplight on the rain-wet familiarity
of past lives and old journals.
I fish your form out of the moving masses
that make up the internal rhythm of the city.
The main drag, the ongoing strip
shows one curve at a time.
Each choice, each rhyme,
cast in fascination’s design,
you familiarize and then rationalize
that you have claimed some of it as your own.
Heading for the exits,
through the archways,
into the stream of intermingling strangers,
words, delicately dance
on transient departures towards
shuttered windows in the glittering night.
We live out these sentences.
Share this common tension.
The outline of rooms,
the lack of attention.
Silence, like auditory acid,
eats straight to but not through
the mood chains I succumbed to.
The darkest shades from the smallest brush strokes
cast shadows as if caught in the gaze
of a probing searchlight.
The most distorted images regurgitated,
the words you write
projected on blank walls,
larger than the letters would allow.
Another pendulous moment
perched over the present,
punctuated by suspicious sidelong glances,
distracted and separated
by the thick sheen of magazines.
On this overlapping stitch
we’ve weaved this one life.
I know better
than to hope for brighter fabrics of weather.
Whether or not we’re together,
I look for beacons in the future’s fog,
for exclamations in the tired log
of plateaued feelings.
Mounting indifference, climbing to the ceiling,
gilded, guided by light
glimmering off of some discarded metal fender
from a vehicle that brought us closer
to whatever it was we were never
going to be able to hold on to.