By Leela Srinivasan
we make & unmake ourselves.
The Renaissance in stop-motion, statues
of Greek gods cast into sand. The great literary
tradition on the windows of each taxi splattering
the street. Florence is peculiar, it lingers like warring
flavors on the tongue. The aftertaste won’t leave
you for days. Good. I think I want company here.
I go down to the marina amidst the broken rocks
& I stay until the sky burns into dusk. I count
everyone I have lost. I count my prides before
they can fall. I wonder when the tide comes in,
what will be left.
Leela writes “to make sense of the world.”