Junkyard Image #4 (Week Five)

The bus ride from Spoleto to Rome. No air and my body fogged on the window--so I wrote a love letter to the city on a hill. Some parts Italian, some mine. For reassurance, I listed places that keep bits of me: an oddly shaped rock right next the lookout on Monteluco, my fingerprints on a wine glass at Artisti, both hands wrapped around Clitunno's cellar door. I lost my moneys in a bag of groceries from Tigre and in a Wonder Woman shot at Cult Movie, forgot my name on a park bench when a boy kissed me while reciting Hirsch. I let my eyes free in a fountain, because it's mouth reminded me of a memorial. Arms and legs went as I twirled about on the amphitheater steps. My tongue to espresso. My laugh to a little girl named Matilde, my heart to her mother. Somewhere between five weeks of broca and pasta, my smile to Bar DuElle. My face into the black curls of Emelie's coat. I didn't mean to lose so much of myself, not at first.