scallops on pasta, old piazza,
i've been with you before.
she spoke italian, rounded, near gelato,
love in an ancient library,
sweet, tight, tiled floors of a train station.
the flash of the camera captures a falling ladder,
above the secret broken place of today,
1968 on newsprint, squinting for stregnth in the dark.
the purity of laughter bounces off
brick walls near a polluted river,
"what can you do?"breasts...fantastico...
tell them the sun is setting, dirt,
all eyes on two bright young ruffians,
spun wizards in italiano, spun words on
the backless drop of a cathedral by night.
wonder if street jugglers are the hipsters
of Pop Cafe, his words, one week from now?
