I.

At Piazza Lovatelli I watch kids steal scorched

hubcaps, palms slick with molten Vespa chrome

as August meanders down the filthy Tiber. Impossible

to sleep since Marxists murdered Moro, his body folded

in the trunk of a beat-up Renault. I wear my Nikon

loaded like an AR-70, desires unclear beyond survival

hot water, 35mm film. Enclosed are Polaroids, back arched

my forehead cropped. I am a riot, an opera, a menace -

II.

Sandro says art that matters is armed and naked

on the streets. Give me a black glove, a white feather

from an angel’s wing. Stilettos of red-lipped women

live in the scaffold of my spine. Neighbors serenade us

with fragrant curses. I haven’t heard from you in weeks.

Forget about me and I’ll fly back to New York, rifle

through your garbage, make a scene in front of the super.

Tell Mama I found panna cotta, but it won’t keep -

III.

You are capable of loving and distorting love, kicking

away the chair beneath me. I threw my yellow sandal

from the window of Sandro’s moving car, curious if

he’d turn back or watch it cook on asphalt, sunny-side

up. I see you in alley shadows, smell your just-washed

hair in the looming pines. I lack courage but some days

it’s crawling all over me with bare feet and beautiful toes -