Spoleto on Sunday afternoon. Little girls pull pizza apart
with their fingers in dresses and tights. Poplar fluff rises and descends in
the air, settles on the slate stones on a street with three cafes. Last night,
I had a dream where I woke in front of a mirror, gray streaking my hair. The
buildings, colored crème, celestial blue, seafoam, and blood orange gelato are
crammed close together and into the sky, blocking Montelucco with windows
spilling red flowers and rooftop gardens filled with vines, the green standing
out in the midst of a maze of terra cotta.
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