[For Marilyn Black] We hover around them, extinct
cities, listening for the noise of their ancient marketplaces, surveying empty
aqueducts, instagramming stone ruts of world’s best practice chariots. Slowly we
compile our own monument: field notes of the shapely temple, me on a blockhead
we called Ozymandias, kooky locals. We fixate
on them, snaky poems, so very Renaissance with titles like ‘The Monument’,
contrary about January and suchlike conceits, in for the long haul print
bestows. Left wondering, but what of all those who couldn’t string words
together, lolling in the trattoria, in love, out of love, drinking their
wine?
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