The great bell
tolls midnight
stirring echoes:
emperors,
martyrs, prophets
in chains.
Above Rome’s
Seven Hills
life and death
still wrestle
in a match already
won.
The last toll
rolls like a tide
through Bernini’s
columns,
over the ramparts,
and disappears.
And for just
an instant I am
at the center
of all my selves,
before I set
out head-bowed,
stone by stone
across the piazza
with no one
in the world to tell.
Dear Reader,
Can I be direct with you?
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