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In Requiem for a Tower

Madness is orchestrated.
It begins with a man who wanders
the streets of your head, sings
the language of your skin.
He enters the Piazza San Marco
of your ear, disappears
down the alley
at the nape of your neck.
Every moretta on every face
you hide, flutters free.
He is virginity tendered by starlight
on the Grand Canal, acqua alta
at the full moon.
A black Countach races north
on the Ponte Della Liberta, away.
You are the symphony
that gives chase, the violin
that yearns. Barovier and Toso
craft the glass that you become.
You hum and shiver every note.
It ends when you shatter
every street.

You are not Venice.
You are the words
he spoke to your skin;
perdita…perso

 


Sherry Pelley is a stay-at-home Mom who does not spend her days watching soap operas. She’s always been a bit of a nerd but understands that geeks are much cooler. She has had poems published in The Centrifugal Eye.

© 2012, Sherry Pelley

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