Florence Train Station


lie drenched between the tracks like fish 

bones in a riverbed, remnants of the ones 

who abandoned the taste of wind.

the iron gutters gurgle

choking on gray water,

sour in a different way from lemon gelato

thick like blood, shallow like a glass.


drifting over the musei and piazze

Michelangelo takes a drag 

and taps the ashes on our umbrellas. 

we fleeing the rain are not David, 

who thrust his hand into the current 

to choose his stones.

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