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.