Junkyard Image #3 (Week Five)

In the last three hours I made a scrapbook out of parts, out of Spoleto--the way Massimo cupped my face, called me bella for the last time and said smile, from the mouth of the mountain caught in mid-yawn, out from under the curves of an Italian bus ticket. I even scraped between the lines of graffiti nearest my favorite Piazza. You were there, with a cigarette and a song.