Rome

Another cigarette butt falls through the Sampietrini.

Distinct in this layer of compressed time,

a sprinkling of modern vice layered over the ancients.

Stepping out in Rome is knowing the bodies of the past

lie beneath, tucked up in stone and lime,

elemental traces of bones and flesh, take form in high art.

Reclaimed marbles stand proudly in temples and palazzi

as millions navigate little streets

to wonder at the old minds that imagined such human grandeur.

The form is perfection. Mathematically miraculous,

contrived so that head and feet

appear in perfect perspective as they hover above mere mortals.

Sitting at tables, nibbling on puff pastry and olives,

we take another sip of Prosecco and gird our loins

for more, to jostle the crowds and drink in more impossible history.

As evening descends and laneways glow with yellow light,

people crowd in to fill the fountain with coins.

And underneath the trashy, trodden paths, old Romans lie sleeping.