in Palazzo Barberini, so
changed in the last five years.
She is the same, the mild
murderess, your inspiration.
I wonder how you breathed
as you watched her, rhymes
climbing your mind like vines.
Air moves my chest the same,
sunlight through restored windows
doesn't disturb her stare.
The two of you, fact and fiction,
Shelley, the Cenci, unaging myths
worth repeating.
No comments:
Post a Comment