in cities spun to the brim with open-mouthed
tourists, finds me napping on the couch
after sunset in Palazzo Barberini. I stopped
to admire the ceiling and sighed my eyes
closed, the dizzying myths kissing my dreams.
Down the hill, motorinos swirl around the fountain
of bees, the metro station sucks in locals
heading home to Trastevere, and the bones
of monks make art underground. Even in
November, American accents squawk happily
around cones of gelato as they wander in packs
toward the Trevi. But I had a date with Beatrice
Cenci, Shelley's muse, and now I sleep through
twilight in the ballroom, safely wrapped in stories
of violence and noise I will never truly touch.
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