RUINSA spring day oozes through Trastevere.A nun in turquoise sneakers contemplates the stairs.Ragaz
RUINSA spring day oozes through Trastevere.A nun in turquoise sneakers contemplates the stairs.Ragazzi everywhere, the pus in their pimplespushing up like paperwhites in the midday sun.Every hard bulb stirs.The fossilized egg in my chestcracks open against my will.I was so proud not to feel my heart.Waking means being angry.The dead man on the Congo roadwas missing an ear,which had either been eatenor someone was wearing itaround his neck.The dead man looked like this. No, that.Here’s a flock of touristsin matching canvas hats.This year will take from methe hardened personwho I longed to be.I am healing by mistake.Rome is also built on ruins.– Eliza Griswold, from her latest book, If Men, Then: Poems, from FSG. -- source link
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