Dust to dust

(Florence 2014)



This city’s built on dust; burnt

martyrs buried saints forgotten



The churches hold the ghosts

let out on stormy nights

they knock on windows


ask me for my tears

touch my living skin

beg to be let in.


It makes me terrified

of death: not the old

age kind


the sort that comes in fright

shutting out my light

before I’ve time to


embellish a sentence

finish the next line. Too

much left unsaid


to succumb to it.


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