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Sydney Whitby

anthropologist

ROMA, SINGULAR

Day carries on brightly,
he has no other choice.
surrounded and swarmed by summery flesh
my blood runs alone, frosted winter
on my crown

Textile crumbles in the furnace
naked in the city
eyes seem hostile, dead to most
alive for only blood

Plaster holds secrets I would
kill to know
echoes in the dome ricochet
off my loneliness
your face is in the letters, it’s in the paper
of my mind

Sweat reminds of weakness
salt, of strength:
who can unveil it?
you must like the bitter with the sweet
dates turn to syrup
in my stomach

Cheap summer dresses plague
the ancient stone
some things are always the same
leisure turns to poison
in the absence of your company

Eternal CIty
crumbling and alive
her secrets sleep under streets
dormant
where would we find the time
quick, a photo
nuance runs, rejected
the Gilded Photo Age
too much to bear

I stand guilty
Of the charge

A shovel prostrated, at my feet
open mouth
who will take the task
heavy earth runs deep, bloated
with a thousand Trojan plates
would you turn back—
for apricot juice in the summer,
do you prefer sweet dawns
do you prefer red roses
what neat knots could you tie without
ever digging

I offer hands to help
open palms
they cannot say another word
hanging limp, sleeping snakes
silent and resigned

Come forget the past
come take sugar and no salt
some things cannot be discovered
They are too much to bear
take a picture
take my name
never ask another thing again

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