We went down to
the Roman station, down
Fibonacci code streets which were tiny
and drawing from a three horn band
transformed life, with sax central riffs

this is the time I spend making my subway dialogue
with Mahla, who was brown Italian
beautifully vamped
the crowds join in
and the mellow bolts sing hurtful songs

green gringo booksellers make double profit
off of Alfred Lord Tennyson and Wayne Rooney
soccer jerseys which like window
hung around the fountains
around the doughy bowls of gelatina, garden fresh

who could have been doubleafraid of
summertime escaping from the loud
a bull in the sewers, a moth in the opaque air
“Somebody have mercy”
his own bridged gaps between blackness

wake in insistent doleful pouting hums of quiet.