xxxxxvii.

Rome crackles as it burns—

I squeeze the colors onto a plastic lid

and spread the mountains of home

onto the side of my bookshelf—

the finance text lies open

on the couch—which is worn

and nonsdescript,

in it’s softness.

on a whim, I halo them

and tell her what I am doing

I worry for the lights across the canyon

and the whisper of the freeway

as the cars rush south
--the frailty of the edges

I confide in a stranger,

and for a moment glimpse

with confidence—
what might have been.