Passata Sotto

They’ll pierce my vein with a chilly needle and drain my fluids for a
medical corporation’s spare change.
And when my mouth dries and my tongue loses taste, I’ll think of the transitions that peeled the skins of my long life.
Somewhere in the city, you move about the course you set yourself.
The city is a dusty shell and winds blow a sparse tune on shattered windows of office buildings.
Wandering souls vibrate jagged crystal panes like tiers on a glass harmonica.
Elsewhere in the world, skeletons sway a waltz in some moonlit meadow and their clacking bones sound a percussion to bolster the music of the far-off city souls.
Ever the more aware of this music, I tread the cracked pavement of skid-row streets, seeking a cool place where I might munch tortilla chips dipped in salsa.
Somewhere in the city, you move about the course you set yourself.
My poverty spreads mortally beyond the material.
And the framework of my mind is a lattice with honeycombed cells of brine. Images churn down tunnels of bone into a salty whirlpool draining to subterranean depths.
And your eyes are the sea trapped in round jewels.
And your soft, supple fingers are the weavers of queens’ dreams.
And your faded words are patches quilting a young man’s shadow.
Tortilla chips dipped in salsa.
White roses dipped in blood.
Passata Sotto--
a would-be warrior’s move of retreat
from a chilly, piercing blade.
Somewhere in the city, you move about the course you set yourself.
I wander about those jewels filled with brine.