Santa Croce





Too many dead beneath my feet


clogging my lungs with filtered bone


Brunelleschi’s colonnades and cloisters


breathe calm




& the angels on the wall stare down


as if to ask me why I’m here .




If Michelangelo walked the streets


what would he say & could he find his way


through Japanese tourists touting


Bisonte bags?




Or would he care as long as he could


feel the blood pump in his flesh again?


Would he stop to stare at David


high on Academia plinth?




This city’s crazed with treasures:


day by day the cameras snap


at genius lost in time. Where are the lovers


& the saints?




These narrow streets refuse release


of mysteries: instead I stand & stare


a beggar at a feast of Art immortal


& complete




with or without the tireless tread


of human feet like mine.



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