Donna
Pucciani USA
Outside life limps along without crowds
and Michelangelo. Graffiti is the
conversation here, stray dogs,
trams, markets with Moroccan
leather and shoes made in No fountains or
miracles except the pasticceria
next door, where espresso is
the dark flower of morning and an
apricot tart blessed with
powdered sugar the liturgy of
the day. At night, the
moon looks on as ordinary
people spill from buses, flood the broken
sidewalks with footsteps
and tired voices, jingle keys and
consonants hidden in the
deep pockets of vowels. Trastevere sleeps with bread as a
pillow.
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