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How quickly each country contracts
to thirty-six bits. Civilisation shrinks
to extras, props, perspective.
People edge out of the shot and the sky
remains grey over some Square, forever.
Behind the fading domes of the soon
misplaced monastery, the stars
ape souvenirs. Each bauble melts
into another country’s keepsake
within weeks. The fact of being
far away recedes, becomes a fiction
you tell yourself over and over.
You check the evidence often,
lacking something to hold
in your hand and believe. Like this.
The Rialto, summer 2008
