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.