La Pieta

The sun grows
to a chrysanthemum
in a sky clear
as cathedral silence.

And July putrifies the tarmac
to a slow quicksand
with each step protesting
stut-schop, stut-schop.

Which we decide is
vaguely German.

Rome intensifies;
businessmen brandish
inevitable attaches
in a myriad of Raybans.

And her arms are
mottled plums.

Too-ripe fruit clutching
a tousled bundle
already labeled
"Nato cieco".

Someone spits an untidy crucifix.
A car howls derision.

But her eyes are grey,
coldly passive,
broken stone made flesh.

And in an Eternal City street
they are the only poem.