Too many dead beneath my feet
clogging my lungs with filtered bone
Brunelleschi’s colonnades and cloisters
& 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
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
with or without the tireless tread
of human feet like mine.