January, and all the early
lights and silences
I can think of. Your memory belongs
to the last beam before
waking.
A different self?
Roman morning
in breath of mystery,
Piazza di Spagna,
standing on a step,
pure shades of usual somethings,
air that sticks like an obsession,
liberates?
I lost my mind for awhile,
moved to and fro in girlish
twist of hips, left behind
imaginative symbols
on dust and leaves--
a shady garden
when it hasn't
rained so much.
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