Rome in a Day

If I had really been born then

I cannot remember-

I had not been there-

but now I am ending as a house running atop the water,

a chair propping a door open,

voices carried in from another room,

a renovation undertaken by a wise, old

Greek architect wearing oil perfume,

and big ideas, and an alliance to Rome,

and I love you still

-love you still-

like dust waiting under the wheels to be thrown.

And since I am leaving,

or rather, being made by force to leave

by the turning of time, the changing of rulers,

these are my demands for parting gifts to me

since I may not have a future,

and you have seen this and taken pity on me:

I want the tips of your ears, the tips of your fingers,

the bridge of your mouth, the soft of your down;

I want to stand in the sunshine and burn,

then be the ash that blows into your eyes,

over your crown;

I want the you that was built in a day

and raised for millenniums before the falling down;

I want the promise that, one day,

there will be another one.

I cannot think

-cannot think-

what will become of us now?