Rosso

Green, white, gold leaf and sandy stone.

This city is twisting corners rusty brick red tiles stretching in endless webs of bridges and wine. This city wraps itself around you and parades its colors one by one.

This city screams at you when you don’t give it money but for almost nothing it will bathe your tongue in oil in acid in salt from the sea. 

It’s bearded men swaddled in fur, opera on the sidewalk cold women hunched by the cathedral with paper and pen. It's dogs in masks with sage in a glass it's no sense of direction save back to the dome.

This city traps you in its ways spinning espresso in the afterglow stumbling through due, cinque, cinquanta. Di not de, tongue caught on the phrase, when it comes it's feliz cumpleanos on Christmas. Navidad, Natale, admit you're American and lost, slow down say yes and crawl into the car. 

Babbo Natale rides bikes, runs shirtless through the squares drinks beer to the sounds of pop ballads on strings. Tangled up in Ms. Mitchell, in polizia and birds holding secret meetings with me and Mr. Jones. She sings in the square; he sways with the bellows grasping keys while you say goodbye. 

The walls are painted, grotesque. Track tags and defaced directionals keep an eye out for goggles, your heart is hiding on the walls. Laughing looking lingering glances regrets in lost chances in every alley unexplored. Go the way that makes you jump, cross bridges leave yourself onshore. Climb the stairs find the lights walk on it’s just the night and you’re always up for a wander.  

At white on blue signs to Roma turn but don't give in. Turn back to the rusty dome if you can see it through the fog. Turn back you're the last to leave, Rome isn't what you need turn back to spider streets taste wine watch colors dance on the bridge-screen.

Take the back way to the man bathed in green watch him blush let the woodwinds scream. Last to leave, so much to do, steal a stone move toward what's still new.

No need to retrace when the one left is you.