Dirt rain clings to my spoiled
marble, gathers in oiled puddles
in the basin of a mosaic. The
lemon sun grows shadows
from ombrello pines like
the sparse weeds of my stone
garden. Still, the sidewalk cracks
from the pads of feet. No vendor
stands in the ashes of my
market, zucchini-iron fences
coil like garlic, my dry bones
reach beyond them for contact.
Nonni pause beyond my gated
serenity and lift their wilted eyelids.
I am a graveyard among living
houses; restful and untouched.
Pompeii would love to gather my
rubble and we could breathe
in the smoke of Vesuvio, but I
lay in the centre of Pozzuoli,
stretched like a single painting
hung in a gallery of walls.