Dante's tomb, Byron's footsteps,
in Piazza San Francesco
on a Tuesday, I am
an American echo, diminished
return, a silent shadow.
Truffle oil, basel, Parma ham
and fresh buffala on a pizza
and I should re-read Paradiso
but the sun and breeze kiss
my eyes shut. Thank God
the church is closed. October
air can't summarize my sins.
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