These are quiet times;
our flower beds are unmade,
speech comes softly in slurred phrases—
the bawdy body hungers
to roam the beaches of Italy,
to coast the coastline from
rocky boot-tip to heal,
converse with wind
joke with waves
forget the lies we’ve muttered
(without confidence).
These are quiet times,
introspective,
yet completely unaware of self.
We’ve tricked ourselves,
petty deceptions,
what we need is to be alone.
But where are we now?
Stuck inside the rhythm
of the shape shifter’s groove,
a Ferris wheel that overlooks the sea,
chases Mediterranean breezes.
We spin in cycles.
I’m on top,
now on bottom,
a tussle with self-fulfilled prophecy;
I just want this ride to end.
These are quiet times,
charred ruins of Pompeii,
like Pisa I lean, bend to you
uncertain which direction is North.