Tuesday, April 5, 2011

Lerici

Italian conversations roll like
background music, murmurs less
words than strings of syllables.
I swim where Shelley drowned,
stronger, taller, and older, and time
has smoothed the rocky floor.
No need for Keats in my bikini.
I've never known when
to give up the ghost;
I'm not a home but
a parasite host.

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