Old, old loves
graffitied intricately into the decaying curves of stone-
struck corners describe the contours of a city
in heat, air-brushed by the Sirocco
and a whiff of drying citrus.
One has the feeling even an Augustine, in such a cauldron,
would never have found the need to confess.
Lost happily in streets
of summered serpentine,
this place has secrets, its
smell of dark underground desires, swaying
palm-scented footsore desires, whole
honeyed catacombs of desires: a
to a rusted future by nothing less than history, yet
etched so firmly into the imagination
that even a Virginia girl
on a snowy winter’s night
remembers with longing
the smoky staccato of her pulse.