Dust to dust

(Florence 2014)  This city’s built on dust; burntmartyrs buried saints forgottenprophets. The churches hold the ghostslet out on stormy nightsthey knock on windows ask me for my tearstouch my living skinbeg to be let in. It makes me terrifiedof death: not the oldage kind the sort that comes in frightshutting out my lightbefore I’ve time to embellish a sentencefinish the next line. Toomuch left unsaid to succumb to it.