When in Rome

Among the dead popes in this ornate cathedral,
Dead hopes. She'd told me that she would come,
But, like God, she is absent, and I couldn't reach
Her. Her phone goes unanswered. She looms
In her silence, like these giant marbles in Saint
John Lateran. “Saint Joan Slattern:” my bitter
Prayer, as I leave, being left to myself.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 29 times
Written on 2010-02-06 at 16:33

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