summer: brutalized by the Roman sun
reduced to weird circles
out and back again
with badly-planned groceries
my books are sleepy
my head is hot and dry
like Keats and Shelley before I die
(though I do hate
to repeat myself) it would be nice
to sing unselfconsciously
like some kind of bird:
that is the exact idea
if not the most precision wording
but I’m talking about freedom goddammit
freedom to be obscure
and from within that obscurity
to rob empires
emphatically not talking about those freedoms
always referenced by Americans
as having been died for
by soldiers
listen:
as we are learning now
those were always very low-utility freedoms
but you, Laura, with your medical knowledge
with your fresh laurel
di Padova se non erro
and delicate hands
if you could just kill me, perform the operation,
then bring me back
such that
some kind of bird
like that one I often heard
in the Protestant Cemetery
(I’m willing to fly to Rome
for this;
we'll do it in the graveyard)
might rise from the chaos
just to hang out
and be itself
...I bet you anything
it would work
could you read up on that?
I think we should try it
