remembering Florence

I thought of Florence yesterday, listening to a song I must have listened to a hundred times while I was there, walking in the February street before they flooded with eager springtime audiences. Walking by the lumbering silence of the duomo, I remember every shop that filled the arches of Michelangelo's workshops. I remember every turn of the walk, the placement of every curb, step, gypsy, and haphazardly placed masterpiece. I remembered how alive it all made me feel, how wonderfully alone. How each footstep felt as though I was sinking deeper into the cobblestones, how each footstep seemed to irreversibly change some part of me. I remembered the way the cold white marble felt in my hands, the weight of its fragile opportunity. I remember how aware I was of the river no matter where I was, and how easily a bridge over its waters went unnoticed as an ordinary street. I remembered feeling lucky every single day and thinking endlessly about how I could feel that way everyday from then on. Yesterday for a moment I wished I had written every second down. But I remember every heartbeat, every brushstroke, every turn of the wheel, every chip of marble that hit the soil.

street walkers

in the shadow of the sun
I walk into the city's symphonies
a purple coat a broken window
a sky lost on too many busy people
a girl walks, without looking
mind blank of a destination
void of purpose or parameters
in her eyes there exist no curbs, nor walks
nor streets, nor racing cars
only forward motion
noise is endless, watchfulness leaks into every corner
tainting nay pocket of silence that boils up
out of unbearable frustration
the winter noon sun sits distractedly on the shoulder blades of the buildings
nudging the chimneys in boredom
the sky is the color of dirty ice
its spittle settles in every crevice
a man with no name pulls his collar over his jaw
and he cries for the cold
in the long game of dress up, this woman runs in every race
and her cashmere tissues float to the ground behind her
in chronic dramatic finales
the stories are endless and they float around each person
possessing the qualities of smoke, wind, tentacles, and cacophony
the stories breed disillusion, chivalry, intimacy, luxury, and isolation