In Rome, there stands a lady in gold and stone.
Her clothing moves, not from the wind, but the past.
I reach to her: to this woman with no bones.
She points with fingers I wish to curl with mine.
Her face is the color of dust and sand.
Here eyes, the same, and yet, I need them to look into mine.
On Spanish steps, and in the Piazza de Santa Maria,
I drown in her memory: Or at least I try.